it was books that made me feel that perhaps i was not completely alone. they could be honest with me, and i with them. reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colors and textures and sounds, i felt ― i felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. i felt i was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. i dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted ― and then i realized that truly i just wanted you. 

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