He never really liked books, unless if it’s a Sherlock Holmes series from Arthur Conan Doyle. He even complained about the sequence of David Levithan’s “A Lover’s Dictionary”. He said it was confusing, more than my penmanship in all my hand-written letters. (I mean seriously, that is the point of comparison?)
That sounded rather off, but I forgave him. I knew he didn’t mean it that way. Besides, romance novels weren’t his thing, most especially, when the story’s not a linear narrative.
I browsed through the book’s leaves, wondering if he left underlines and notes aside from the definition he initially written for me. And there it was, a smiley beside a short entry.
These are times when I worry that I’ve already lost myself. That is, that myself is so inseparable from being with you that if I were to separate, I would no longer be. I save this thought for when I feel the darkest discontent. I never meant to depend so much on someone else.
He glanced at me, caught me re-reading the page. He smiled, but did not utter a word.
Then that was him, more than I could ever define.