You deserve another letter and many more to come. I promised you a hundred and one. Let’s see where the score ends.
Dear hair-puller, high-fiver, shoe-kicker,
I don’t think I love you. I don’t think I am capable of knowing what love is, much less feeling it. My heart doesn’t skip a beat when I look at you, think about you or when our eyes meet from across the room.
I don’t want to spend long hours on the phone listening to your voice.
I donot wish to have you all for myself. And I don’t mind your divided attention.
But I must say, what we have, feels better than love ever would.
The ease with which we share our silence, the warmth of just existing next to each other in the same moment, the way your eyes search for mine to share an inside joke and how my face lights up when we’re both thinking the same thing.
The way you insult me, knowing I wouldn’t take offence, the way you praise my abilities coated in professionalism, it does make me like you.
It makes me like you when you share a song with me or when our hands go up in the air together for a high five.
I like you a little more when you chase me, or pull my hair or we tackle each other because you don’t consider me fragile. You consider me an equal.
I like you a little more when I see myself through your camera. Is that how you see me? The way you capture me?
But I like you most of all because you accept whatever little of my liking I could offer you. Knowing that I might never fully know love, yet not caring about it at all.
Never hounding me about my incapacity of showing or sharing emotions and just understanding that whatever little moments I can offer you is all I have.
Always laughing at your goofiness