I have been thinking about you a lot. I think about a reality where I could open an MSN chat window and talk to you across time. Thirty-two year old me wants to tell sixteen year old you everything I know, and thirty-two year old me wants to hear sixteen year old you tell me just how wrong I am and how you’ll prove it so.
I see you in my eyes mostly. Because they were your eyes once, and I want to remember how it was you saw everything. I want to remember and feel the way you felt when you sat down every single day to ramble your thoughts away to the beat of the blinking cursor and all that J-Pop.
I feel your back pressed against mine and it’s strange how we are the same but somehow you were smaller. You were so strong from all the hours of dancing, and I am strong because I had to learn to put in the work. I am strong because we still day dream about being a sci-fi hero wielding our fists, out flying our squadron mates and cutting everyone down with the sharpest tongue the backwaters has ever heard.
I found you in a stack of faded pages. Embossed with angry ink from rage I can no longer comprehend. Some pages are crispy from dried tears and it’s a little funny to me that you have no idea how many more were to come; I want to warn you that tears come for many worse reasons than you had faced up until then.
You are me but I will never get to be you. I just wanted to tell you how much I love you and all your silly banter. That I look up to you sixteen years later. You didn’t know it then, but you know it now - you are the hero in the story; you are the survivor of our wreckage. Thank you for being you and thank you for allowing you to become me.
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