And perhaps that is what frightens me most about you: how effortlessly you have become a part of me. How I find myself saving little things throughout the day just to tell you about them, as though every passing thought becomes a little less ordinary if I can share it with you. I catch myself wondering what you'd say, what your face would look like, whether you'd laugh at the same ridiculous things I do. It's embarrassing, really, how much of my world has begun to make room for you. I think if you were here, I wouldn't even need anything extraordinary. I'd want the sleepy mornings, the tangled limbs, the quiet laughter against your shoulder. I'd want to watch you exist without feeling the need to fill every silence. I'd want to learn the language of your little habits, memorise the expressions you make when you're concentrating, and discover all the different ways your voice sounds when you're tired, excited, or trying not to laugh. I'd want to know you in the ways that don't fit into