We were alone before we met. Not in the literal sense. We both had our happiness and our friends, but something clicked after our stereotypes fell away. You came over and we spoke like we’d done it for years, where you told your fears and I told mine, a simple thing that had never come so easy. Nothing felt so smooth but our conversations. Butter on bread, hands across skin with varying brown dots that took you years to learn to love. They always made you seem brighter, make the room light up and not even in a way that was physical or seen, just a feeling. Complex math and misread words brought us closer, though my awkward stupidity and your sarcastic sass blended together into a mix of notes that was never easy to define. You were always meant for me and I was always meant for you. It isn’t something I can describe. Even if we never end up together, I have you on my skin and you have me on your own and the memory of the warmth will always remain even if we do not. No one really understands what I mean when I try to be honest about the two of us, for we are not lovers but we have become closer than simple friends. It isn’t a matter of attraction or the things that you let me see or the things I let you in on, but the fact that my soul was able to meet your own at all is something I will always consider the greatest part of my life.
