At the end of the day, when people ask me what it is exactly that we have, I wish I could answer them but I realize that when I try, I’m left with a tangle of words that only half make sense: frustrating, radiant, difficult,

ours.

Truly, that last word matters to me most of all. Because it’s something of our own, and even though there may be people whispering their opinions about what we have, ultimately it’s my choice or your choice that will determine whether or not we fall. If we listen to those voices, it was of our own fault. To be held accountable for something and to know that its life basically rests in your hands—I won’t lie; it feels good. At the drop of a dime I can basically wring the neck of what we have and choke the life out of it or I can facilitate it, and we can both carry on business as usual and float about in our happy-happy-joy-joy bubble.

But I know you. I know that you like it when I sprint along that precarious edge (under the impression that, for right now, the balance of our relationship is tilting in my favor) without a care if I topple over, without a worry as to if you’re at the bottom waiting to catch me or not. I can manage, and you love the fact that I’ll be able to land without you, that I’m giving you the choice to be there or not be there and I can adjust to either variable mid-head-over-heels free fall, either bracing myself to land on my toes or throwing my arms out to catch them around your neck.

You like it when I don’t feel like loving you. You like it when I look at you with emotions in my eyes that are much less bright than they should be. You’re comfortable trifling with hate, and I am more than content to let you stand through the barrage because I know well enough that you are as strong as I am and that no matter what we both throw at each other, we can withstand it, not only because we are strong but because we both know when to stop.

Stop. Stop.
Breathe.

Inhale even though you don’t have to, exhale because you’ve started the gesture already and this far along, you might as well finish it. Look at me not because I’m the only thing you should look at, but because I’m the only thing you want to look at, and recognize me. See me.
 
Because I can see you. And even though I know we have built this entire thing on the pretense that things need not be reciprocated, it’s something I have to tell you. My eyes—they perceive you. And not only that, they appreciate you. The one who stands tall in the corner (but sometimes not so tall, and sometimes not in the corner at all) with eyes that flash only occasionally and a smile that is bright only half the time and a love that burns almost all of the time, or so I hope.

I have you pegged (or at least most of you, because even I can’t boast and say that I know all of you…) and I know that in a weird, offhanded sort of way, you kind of have me figured out too. You know me well enough to be able to judge my mood by which coffee mug I pull from the cupboard (The penguin? I’m happy with life. The Garfield one? Feeling a little sardonic; win me over with some wit. The big, bowl-like minty colored mug? Down in the dumps, so have some forethought and get a cookie from the pantry since you’re so observant. That one with the Siamese cat eying the fishbowl? Don’t even try.) and you can tell if I’m sick by the mere focus of my gaze.

So all this has to account for something, right? Somewhere, all these things have got to point to the fact that we’re an absolute match made in heaven—somewhat. But then again, heaven was never a road paved with good intentions and you can’t blame me for wondering if, at the end of the day, any of this is worth it at all.