He cried. He cried and I watched and cried too.
And we flipped through this notebook, through the past two years or so with every little confession of mine laid out, opened neatly, exposed in a way that I had never been before.
His eyes were red and I saw them, the tears, running down his face. I held him in the dark as he sobbed and told me things about himself, about being trapped by two opposite undeniable choices, about believing in nothing and believing in everything.
There is so much more in him that needs to be told.
I want to help him. I want him to be happy, because as [important] as every tear that I had only imagined existed was, I never want him to feel that way again.
We are so young and so old.
I love him so much, and each of these little crises seems to make me love him even more.
Is he hurt now, in this moment?
(Please don’t let him ever feel lonely.)
I want him to be free, to be happy with loving me.
But I want him to be with me, too. So badly.
Can we work this out? Can we be happy together?
(Can we make this last?)
I haven’t spoken to you properly for a while.
Help us both through this.
I want to protect him so badly.
I really don’t want to write this next part, because I love him too much, too fiercely, and I am dependent on him.
Give your hearts unto the hands of Life…
Thy will be done.