My friends talk about how a person shouldn’t need another person to be happy, and they’re absolutely right. I don’t need another person to be happy; I was happy. I found happiness in the solitude, in my friends and family, in writing, reading, rediscovering myself. I’m weird and quirky, easily excitable, and so so caring. I fell in love with myself for the first time.
Something has been missing though. Something intangible and immeasurable, like the whispering of wind through the trees.
For the longest time, I thought I had a hole in my heart that could never be filled; I thought there was something wrong with me. But, I think, maybe the best things happen when you aren’t seeking them out, when you just let life’s current sweep you away.
I am happy. I’m happy with the growth and progress I’ve made and with who I’ve become.
But I would be lying if I said he didn’t magnify the happiness I’ve found 100 fold. He reminds me that I am worthy of more than simple happiness. He reminds me of exhilarating euphoria. He reminds me that I deserve to be challenged and utterly amazed. He reminds me of galaxies and constellations.
He feels like a hot cup of coffee next to the fire on a cold winter morning. He makes me feel electrifyingly alive. He feels like a gentle breeze on a sultry summer evening. He makes me feel calm and safe in a world full of disastrous chaos. He feels like everything I’ve ever been missing.
He reminds me that it’s okay to put my trust into someone again: that just because I’ve been hurt in the past doesn’t mean that he’s going to do the same. He reminds me that I’m a priority; our relationship matters to him. He reminds me that opening up and vulnerability are strengths, and I can trust him with anything I’m going through. And he always, always reminds me that I am worthy of love.
I can’t promise to never be irrational or absurd; I’m not good at keeping my emotions in check (no matter how much I try to convince myself that I am). I can’t paint him original art pieces because I think in words and feelings, and I can’t sing him beautiful melodies as my range is never quite on key. I’m not good at poetry or ballads, creating or performing. Honestly, I’m not good at much, but I can guarantee I’ll be good to him.