I loved you from the moment I saw you. I think you loved me too.

You weren’t afraid to hold me, to teach me, to guide me, and so I loved you.

Even when you grew angry at me and said things I couldn’t comprehend, in a voice I couldn’t understand, I still loved you.

When you hurt me with your words, your hands, when you targeted my very soul, I still loved you.

I protected you. I kept your secrets. And I was always there for you.

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Even when I hated you, I loved you.

When they tried to take me from you, I refused to go. When my father, my friends, strangers disparaged you, I defended you.

When you gave me pills, I took them because I loved you.

When you held your hand over my mouth, I did nothing because I trusted you.

As I faded, I forgave you.

And when you buried me, I still loved you. Because you cried, I thought you might love me too. Neither of us wanted this. I know that. I’ve always known that.

There are billions of ways our lives could have played out, with so many different avenues; who knows what could have happened to us. You happened to me, again and again, and, maybe, I happened to you too.

But even when it was wrong, I still loved you.