You opened up to me like a gift.
I didn’t know that it was one.
The way you talked about your dad, drunk and drunker, and the way your flatmate uncomfortably reminded you of your dad. The way your mother supported you and somehow the crazy in your sister. Your crazy exes. I wondered if you would talk about me like you did about them, if we ever did date.
Your struggles with your mental health. Things stated in passing, things that you would rarely say to anyone that wasn’t close to you. After you confessed, after I turned you down (gently, I hoped), you stopped talking about those things, even when I mentioned them. And why should you?
You were so kind to me and I thank you for it and I hope that you are well, and good, and healthy.
Thank you for talking about the stars in the night sky with me, nights during which we would meander around campus and play silly games with our drink straws and make comments about passerby.
I hope you are well, and that you have found someone who can listen, and give, someone who you can look back at and say, not crazy. Or even, this is my kind of crazy.