I fell in love with him because he was an utterly good person. He was never one who stood out in a crowd, never one of those people that everyone noticed as soon as he entered a room, but he listened to me. He listened and he truly wanted to know how I was, or if I needed him in any particular way. And I did. I needed him to lift me up when I felt like falling, but as soon as that shrewish feeling of inadequacy began tormenting my already worried mind, he became an addiction. When he forgot little things like me going away with my mother, I didn't blame him. I blamed myself.
The time we spent apart suddenly meant more than the time we were together. I used to envy all the people that passed him in the subway tunnels or just bumped in to him on their way to some pointless meeting with some pointless friend. I couldn't believe that they got to touch him when I wasn't even there, and I wanted them to know what an amazing person they just came close to. I wanted to tell them so that they could appreciate and cherish that moment, and treasure him just as much as I.
But they never did.