Whatever it was, I felt it in my gut. Organically. Euphorically. Even when it came back up, I did not mind the taste. You made me feel like I could stomach anything though I always hated sour food, I spent my afternoons kissing you when I should have been at school. My grades started to drop and you told me college was a waste because the world did not need my help, you did. So I started learning how to fix broken things. There isn't much literature about broken people. They say you aren't there to fix them, but to love them instead but you drilled it in my head that those two were the same and that if I didn't do it I was useless so I ran myself thin trying to piece you back together. You never even told me what broke you in the first place. I spent months trying to get into your headspace to figure it out and you boarded the windows on our apartment so the heat could not get out, or that's what you told me anyway. I guess I never told you how I felt about all of this and I'll never get the chance, but you made me feel something I still can't. I look for it, believe me. I tried everything. Nothing matches the rush I got when you would knock me down then pick me back up. Nothing struck quite like your words even when they were used to step on the path I was planting for myself, but I never asked for help because I didn't know it was wrong. And now I don't know how to fix it, or me. I should have looked harder for those books on how to fix people, I guess.