It wasn’t until I had shared that with him, my thoughts on what happens to you after you die, that I realized I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone else. I had been able to, with the utmost confidence, share the things I kept closest to my heart. These were thoughts I never vocalized, ideas I only thought about as I was falling asleep at night. Things that were so private, the idea of telling them to someone was ridiculous, borderline obscene.

But it had felt so necessary to say them to him, to let him in to that last, most secret part of my being. It was like I wouldn’t’ve been able to live with myself if I hadn’t. Almost as if I couldn’t stand to be two separate beings anymore. I wanted him to know everything about me. How my sister died, how often I regretted starting that fight, why I don’t like the way charcoal creeps up on my arms and fingers and how it’s very different from the way paint feels when it does the same thing. I wanted him to know what it was like for me when I would start seizing. I wanted him to see the things I see, to hear and feel how I do.

And I wanted his secrets. I wanted to know why he had moved to New York. When he had first started cutting and why. I wanted to know what name he was confirmed under, if he had loved his first girlfriend, if he had wanted to have sex with Alex and if he had thought about it the same way I think about making love to him. I wanted to know when he first discovered Led Zepplin and why he only listens to vinyl. I wanted to know if he believed in aliens or bigfoot or the Mayan calendar. The power of positive thinking. God? (Do you still believe in God, Ransom? Even after all he’s done to you. After everything he’s made you think about yourself and hate about yourself and your body and who you love and the things you do in the dark with me?) I wanted to know why he said Neon Bible and Thom Yorke saved his life

But most of all, I wanted to know if he knew how much I loved him.