Don’t misunderstand, though: I enjoy the times I’m not alone, too. As it turns out, finding a life partner is not all that overrated. If anything, it is underrated.
It is the greatest joy of my life.
But then again, I suspected it would be, as do we all before we have it.
I love to look at David. I love to see him. He loves to touch me.
He is supremely good.
We are together almost constantly.
“When you can read a book, read a poem, take walks together, that is love.”
That is what my dad told me one time.
“When you can be alone together,” he said, “That is love.”
He was right.
We are companions. We are happy. This is love.
And this is what I want everyone to have.
So, please. If you are reading this right now, please take my advice—some of it, probably not all, because every situation is unique and I wouldn’t want to lead you astray, not ever, because I love you and I care about you and I want you to be happy so badly.
I want it more than anything else.
But please, if you are reading this right now, do what I’ve told you to do, over and over in this story and in other stories I’ve written, too: Be happy.
Make yourself happy.
You can’t be responsible for everyone else in this world, but you can be responsible for that.
And so, dear reader, that is all that I have to say.
Except: thank you. Thank you for listening to me. I wanted to tell you how I felt about all of this, and what I experienced, and I wanted you to understand.
And, of course, I wanted you to get something out of it, too.
So, if you did—if there was anything in this letter you agreed with, or didn’t agree with, or liked or didn’t, and by agreeing or not agreeing or liking or not liking, there was something you learned that you didn’t know before, or at least not all the way—I would love to hear about it.
This letter, after all, is not just for me.
It’s for you.
I hope that someday, we can meet each other. We can keep each other company, and be together, even while we’re alone.
I hope that someday, we’ll be friends.