My you.

Sometimes I forget that you know me, as well as and better than I know myself, most of the time.  All of the time.  When it matters and when it doesn’t.

Sometimes I forget that you’ve known me for half my life–through the cutting and not.  Through the geeky laughter and not.  The poetry, the bad relationships, the depression and anxiety–and not.  You moved in and out of my life seamlessly, and I missed you when you weren’t there; but then, there you were.

Sometimes I forget that you can read my eyes, my face, my posture, the way that my hands move when I’m anxious or excited better than anyone else.  That you know the secrets I’ve never told anyone else.  That you’ve seen parts of me that have never seen the light of day that clearly with anyone else.

Sometimes I forget that I don’t have to overexplain, even when I need to.  Sometimes I forget that you’ve never experienced these things, yet you have through me.  Sometimes I forget that I’m slowly, patiently learning to be an equal, a “pretend grown-up,” someone that does not have to look out for herself.

I forget, sometimes, that you will protect me, because I so rarely see anything outside of myself that you need to protect me from.  And sometimes, you save me from myself.

Sometimes, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.  And sometimes? It’s more.

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