I read some old letters that I wrote back when I was a different person. She was a different person then too.
Back then I don’t think that I really believed in love, I believed that I could love someone but I didn’t believe that love was something that could be shared. I didn’t believe that love was something that I could ever understand. The letters are filled with hope and infatuation and vulnerability. All of that romanticism is gone. All of those swooning, nervous, I’m going to float into space because I’m so full up on the idea of someone feelings are gone. What’s left isn’t exciting, it doesn’t quicken my pulse or fill my head up so full that it has room for little else, what’s left is a foundation on which I’ve built everything else upon. It is the ground that I walk on, it holds me in place, it anchors me to who I am and supports me to grow into who I will be. It is you and it is me, not an idea or an all-consuming feeling, it is as real as the hands that write this.