I text you purely in a professional capacity. Not that my opinion’s headline important just, sometimes, if I think a thing, I got to say it out loud, before it disperses. And your story felt like my heart was a beehive and honey was ready.

I realise in the not talking stage that we’re in, I shouldn’t exactly text you or call, even if my heart/head are a situation of constant “fuck it”. I should exercise the restraint Guides taught me, those church cheese suppers where I just drank water, ate crusts, for 24 hours, and this somehow proved to god and parents I’d got like total gumption.

You know what? I do. I’m steely. Except every person I know looks at me like paper with a misprint on it that they can’t fix, might as well shred and start over.

You don’t look at me like that. I don’t meet your gaze often for obvious reasons and even in the same postcode it’s a tricky prospect. I’m pretty wordless about it.

But your story. I liked it, so much.