To Indiana

"Is there anything you want me to say? Is there anything you need to get off your chest?"
"I don't know."

That was a lie.

It wasn't until the first of this year I realized how irreplaceable you were to me. As I drove home, you talked me down from my utter despair at the memory of losing her, brought on by my friend crying in my arms about her dying father. Trapped by compassion, all I wanted was to leave -

April. I called you on the highway back to my hometown, shaky fingers and a shaky voice dissolving into tears as I told you he dumped me. All I remembered was how soothing the stream of words were, coming from the other end of the line.

A few days later, you were in my state again. I picked you up from my alma mater, sleep-deprivation causing my edges to blur. The next day, something shifted irrevocably. There wasn't enough time to realize the consequences. You were in the air twenty-four hours later, en route to Indiana.

I wanted you so much closer. And yet we danced around it, utterly convinced we could be nonchalant. And maybe that was our mistake.

It was fragile and worthwhile and good. And despite everything that happened afterwards, you were instrumental in reminding me that, hey, I was wanted. And I was desired. And I, I was loved. No matter what you think of me now, just know nothing can take that away.

You were what I needed. I hope you felt the same.