a thousand clever lines

4 Jan

Last night Daniel sent me a picture of himself from February 18th, 2006. His mom took it. It was right before a paddling race, I think. I didn’t know him then. His hair was much longer, and his skin was golden. He was looking right at the camera and squinting just a little, because it was far away. He’s not smiling, but I can tell he was in a happy mood. He looks good. Really good. *wink*

It’s strange to look at a picture of someone I know so well, before I knew him. If I let myself, I could be jealous. Jealous of the people he’d known then. Of the people he cared for and who cared for him. I could be jealous of that hat he’s holding, because at the time, he was thinking more of it than of me. Yes. If I let myself, I could drive myself insane.

He’s lying beside me now, reading a book because I love it. He stops from time to time to laugh about the funny lines, and then he reads them to me to see what I thought. I laugh too, because I enjoyed them too. And because I’m happy that he likes it. He likes me.

I wanted to see what I was doing the day that picture was taken, so I opened up my journal from that time. On February 18th, 2006, I’m not sure what I was doing. But on the 17th, I wrote of the friends that meant so much to me at that time. I was really excited about platonic relationships, and I feel as though I enjoyed walking the line between that and romantics. A couple thousand miles had recently separated me from a boy I’d spent five years calling my best friend and one week my boyfriend, and I’d just reached that time when it was finally okay to send him Roses Are Red poems without feeling pathetic. It was cute and silly, and it didn’t mean anything. Well, unless those Taking Back Sunday lyrics in his AIM profile were about me. But. Nothing more happened. And I was fine.

And now I’m here. It’s nice here, and I think I’ll stay.


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