hidden words.

I’m not one for love letters.  I’m not one for romance at all, actually.

I’m the exact opposite of the kind of girl that wears her heart on her sleeve.  I don’t even have a sleeve.  I’m the sleeveless girl.  No sleeve.  No heart.

I keep all my emotions in.

You know I love you, but you’ll never know how much.

And maybe I don’t say all the ways that I love you, but I do in so many:


You make me better.  Before you, I didn’t like the person that I was.  I was impulsive and did whatever I wanted to do and didn’t even consider anyone else.  Impulse isn’t always bad (but it’s usually irresponsible), but I was impulsive selfishly.  I didn’t think about anyone but myself and then would pay for it later on.  Then I would be upset and think the world was ending, when I could’ve prevented it in the first place.

I was ignorant to my selfishness.

You make me see other people.  You make me want to see other people.  Because not only do I want to see you, but I want you to see me as a person worthy of your love.

You make me see all the good in me.  And that makes me want to stay good, to constantly strive to be better.

You know me.  On my best days and my worst days.  You know me on my sick days when I’m blowing my nose in your face the whole time.  You know me on bitchy days when I snap on you for no reason.  You know me on my sad days where I don’t want to get out of bed or talk to anyone.  You know me and love me all the same.

You find my anxiety about the tiniest things endearing, and you calm me down when it’s all-consuming.  You genuinely laugh with me when I’m hysterical at the cleverness of my puns.  You think I’m beautiful when I’ve just woken up in the morning and I call myself a zombie.

You rub my back like you know I love every time I’m lying on my stomach.  You kiss my forehead in the morning.  And tuck my hair behind my ear when you think I’m sleeping.

You listen to my mom when she drops hints to my father about how a woman would love to receive flowers, then show up with a bouquet later in the week.

And not for me.

You come shopping with me and don’t get mad when I take a half an hour in the changerooms.  Instead, you sit outside and help me decide which ripped jeans looks better.

You think it’s cute rather than crazy when I finish binge watching Grey’s Anatomy and seriously think I have a brain tumour (I’m still not convinced I don’t).  Or when I go in deep, unnecessary detail about the Latin root of English words… Or when I go on about the Banana Republics in Guatemala like fifty years ago.  Or talk about poor little Tilikum.

Basically it’s a miracle that you don’t hate me, but that you fully accept who I am.

You’re the person I love, and your acceptance matters.  I care how you see me.  And the fact that you know me, you really and truly know me, that helps me to accept who I am as well.

You’re my best friend and there’s no one else like you.

No one else I’d rather spend my Sunday afternoons, or my drunken Fridays with.

No one else I’d rather grab onto while watching a scary movie.

No one else’s shoulder would I rather lean against while crying hysterically when Henry can’t travel anymore and leaves the love of his life.

No one else I’d rather call when freaking out about school, or family, or roommate drama.

No one else I’d rather laugh with at Fuck Jerry’s posts, or Step Brother’s outtakes.

No one else I’d rather buy tubs of cookies and cream ice cream and waffle cones with.  And then eat two huge cones and watch movies all night.

You’re my best friend.

And we’re both independent, and we both do our own things, and we have our time apart.

But everything I experience I know it would be better if you could experience them with me.  Because I want you there.  Things are always better when you’re around.

I love you.  I love you for all these reasons and more.


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