She’s here, wrapped in my sheets, peaceful, beautiful. An angel, so sure of herself in so many ways, except in this—in trust, in letting herself be seen and loved, in letting herself love something back. The woman won’t even let herself have a pet, despite how she tears up over the love of an animal. And she chose me. At least she chose me to trust, and whether or not she realizes this bit yet, it hits me that I know I love her.
