text: You'd tell me to relax. But not the way most people say it. Nothing you say seems to be the way most people say it. They mean calm down, chill out, disregard whatever it is. You'd mean it the way someone who understands the panic would say it. You'd mean breathe deeper, let go of anxiety, it will be... okay. You'd make me laugh. But not the way most people do. I'd laugh out of politeness, realizing I wasn't even paying attention enough to know what type of laugh to fake. Masks, and all that. But you'd make me laugh almost before I'd have time to process why what you said or did was funny. Like my body could react faster to you than my brain. Maybe because like recognizes like, before logic gets in the way. You'd make me hopeful. But not the way I usually am. Usually, it's hoping that I can change, fix all the little parts that piss people off. Always that look of disappointment, that dramatic sigh, and I'd think, hopefully, I can work on that. But now, I feel more hopeful that maybe it isn't me. Fix things that are broken, sure, but realizing puzzle pieces are't called broken when they don't fit. And eventually, there is a spot where they can drop right in. You'd make me angry. But not in the way most people see it. Most peoples problems feel silly, being negative about being negative. And I can get upset, feel bad for their magnified issues, sure. But you made me want to yell at people I've never met, slap faculty I'll never know. Because seeing you give up things that matter, not know you're so amazing at being amazing, drives me up a fucking wall. These negative thoughts you carry, each one makes my teeth grind. You'd say you understood. But not in the way most people would. There is always a caveat that ends up turning grief into another opportunity to fix myself. Sorry your family pulls at you so much, but you let them. Sorry you feel unsatisfied, but you want too much. But you didn't caveat things. You didn't say you understood as a way to give advice. You just said it because it's true. You'd understand. You'd be interesting. But not in a comedic, tragic way. Not interesting to watch because I already know something is going to turn out wrong, or interesting to learn more about because it sounds absurd. You are interesting in the way a child is fascinated when they first see the ocean. The wildness, the peacefulness. The feeling that this terrifying, insane, glorious thing also seems so real, so natural, so authentically true. So many new things that pull on these strings tied to my chest, strings that I never knew were there. You'd be my waking dream. But not in the way I usually daydream, alone and full of grandiose. Being the Avatar or running away to live in a shack by the ocean. No, it was more simple than that. Making you coffee, dropping off snacks during lunch, trying to like Gatsby, curled into you on my hard days, reading to you on yours. I could fill too many lines with all those thoughts. But the most different part was that this pretend world wasn't just occupied by me. At least, I like to think not. You'd make it difficult to be quiet. Most people will tell you, that has always been me. But they don’t know it’s because I don't care what their response will be. It won't... impact... (I guess I am not a good student) ... me because it doesn't matter to me, they're not inside my space. But you seemed to slowly step into me, and somehow I didn't pull away. All the sudden I could share things, be loud, and not worry about the response, even grow to look forward to it. That sincere lack of frustration that is only possible when communication is so... native, when comfort is so obvious. You'd make me safe. But not the way I usually feel that. I have become my own foundation, somehow. Things built on top of things that make up those very things. It's a painful contortion. But you'd say such small things that would start this process of undoing. Encouragement without an ounce of selfishness. You untangled me. You'd make me sad. But not the way I normally can get sad. Not sad because something went wrong, or I'm disappointed, or general melancholy. You made me feel sad the way you'd feel sad if you found out dragons existed, but the last one died yesterday. An irremediable type of grief. Consistent, annoyingly blinding liquid reminders of losing something I never had. An ideal cup of coffee spilled before you took your first sip. And I've had to wear glasses all day. You'd make me ramble. But not the way I usually do, out of anxiety, to fill the void. You'd make me ramble to stretch the time. To trick myself into living in that daydream for a bit longer, shut out the real world. "Pretending to not feel alone." I guess the same as I'm doing now. To stretch time. To remain here. You... you made me feel. And there is no comparison.