And I’d looked at him with new eyes. He wasn’t the unblemished, naive figure I’d imagined. He was weathered by pain. Aged by suffering. And despite it all, he had learned how to reforge his joy. How to use the pain to construct his life. We were more alike than I’d imagined, only he was a better, fuller version. The person I had been striving, and failing, to become. He gave me hope. More than that, he became someone I could trust. Someone I could let myself love.
