in which the author has feelings



i’m having another argument with myself, feeling some kind of way about a great many things, and it has nothing to do with you.

it has everything to do with you.
i’m trying to get used to not eating any food until after 1 p.m. so that the morning of this damned surgery won’t turn me into a screeching hellbeast who knows no emotion but hunger… so i’m sitting here drinking coffee while my cat begs for a second breakfast and every single train of thought comes back to you.
your safety and happiness are my one priority in life and i am honored that i get to be part of your life in any capacity you are one of the best things in my life and one of my few reasons for working to be better, healthier, happier than i am
— and i want to tell you this–
— and i’m afraid to tell you this.
why am i afraid to tell you this?

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