He speaks to me, telling me how much he enjoys my writing. He tells me that he is unshockable, that he finds no piece of honest expression unforgivable. Then he says something funny--I know my words won't touch your deepest insecurity, but I still want you to know that you should not write for me.
I thank him, lungs dangerously high in my throat, dry my dishwashing hands, go for a tissue. But he stops me, puts his arms around me, and whispers, You are so beautiful, and you have no idea what kind of friends you have. No idea.
And I break, and sob, and tremble, but it's okay, it's fine, because he is there, his arms around me so tight that I can barely breathe. And somehow, that surety makes the deluge of tears less overwhelming, less frightening, safer.
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