He feels like sharing memes and finishing burritos; like snuggling on a bench when I'm shivering and letting me wear his jacket the wrong way. He feels like long phone calls and sarcastic remarks; like feeding ducks, and helping kids, and going kart racing, and being terrible at Mario kart. He feels like silly puns and bad humor, all the while still putting butterflies in my stomach. He feels like the heat in my cheeks when my classmates ask me about where my bracelets came from, and the pride in my heart when they say that he's cute. He feels like kissing in a park, holding hands next to fireworks,  and giggling at the movies. He feels like sunshine and Rex Orange County. He feels like home, like someone who will always be able to make me smile, like someone who will endure a hug even if its awkward.

But he also feels like crying at 10pm in my room on Thanksgiving and clutching my chest because I can hardly breathe.  He is in every sad song I've ever heard, and every depressingly artful photo I see. He is the bittersweet memory of a lost young love, and the fractured, splintery aftermath of trying to recover. He is sitting in a park alone for an hour, crying because you dont know if he's even going to come.  He is the anxiety of being ignored for three weeks, then showing up to a party I'm at. He is the tear stained pillowcase from every time he has asked, "are you a waste of my time?" -- each one a separate fist to the stomach. He is the fear of never knowing what is going on in his mind and the constant worry of not being enough. He is the sadness and frustration of every Sunday morning with an empty chair. He is the moments I lie on the cold wood of my bedroom floor in the greying sunlight, salt mixing with my hair, and feeling empty. He is like the ache between my ribs everytime I'm left on read.

But he still feels like home, and he still feels like the only love I've ever known. And it's all about how it feels, right?  And it's okay as long as he doesn't hurt those feelings...

Right?