You have spoiled me. Taught me to love myself just a little more. Reminded me that I am not as bad as I make myself out to be. You have accepted and you have cared and you have listened. Maybe just a little too much.
And that is why sometimes, when I talk to you in my head I freeze. I trip over the words I am thinking because I brake suddenly.
Because I am afraid. Of you, of what we have, of myself, of how you make me feel, of the future, of everything. A kind of choking fear that drowns out all rational thought. That takes all that's bad and then compounds it. Momentary, but overpowering.
A fear that I am not good enough for you. Too young, too immature, too annoying, too plain, too excitable, too far away.
A fear that we were never supposed to get together, that we will never work.
A fear that what we have is just too good to be true. Combined with a fear that maybe we don't have anything at all and that we're just deluding ourselves into believing we do.
A fear that one day you will wake up and realize that I am not as strong or well-read or smart or verbose or interesting as you first thought.
A fear that one day I'll just push too hard with something I say or do and that final straw is what will make you decide enough is enough.
A fear that maybe I've used up all the good that I'm supposed to get in my lifetime and that if this goes away, you go away, I will never ever get any more because no one person gets to have that much.
And on top of all of that, combined with all of that, the fear that you will get bored of me. That if I don't try hard enough to keep you, you'll leave.
All of it is as simple as that. And as complicated as that.
I have no idea what I would do without you.