I loved you from the moment I saw you. I think you loved me too.


    You weren’t afraid to hold me, to teach me, to guide me, and so I loved you.


    Even when you grew angry at me and said things I couldn’t comprehend, in a voice I couldn’t understand, I still loved you.


    When you hurt me with your words, your hands, when you targeted my very soul, I still loved you.


    I protected you. I kept your secrets. And I was always there for you.


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    Even when I hated you, I loved you.


    When they tried to take me from you, I refused to go. When my father, my friends, strangers disparaged you, I defended you.


    When you gave me pills, I took them because I loved you.


    When you held your hand over my mouth, I did nothing because I trusted you.


    As I faded, I forgave you.


    And when you buried me, I still loved you. Because you cried, I thought you might love me too. Neither of us wanted this. I know that. I’ve always known that.


    There are billions of ways our lives could have played out, with so many different avenues; who knows what could have happened to us. You happened to me, again and again, and, maybe, I happened to you too.


    But even when it was wrong, I still loved you.