September 14, 2018:

"Wowowowowowowow," I text her, inarticulately but accurately. Because those are my true feelings.

She's sent a mirror selfie in a new outfit. Gorgeous. Stunning. Heart-stopping.

She's more than merely beautiful. She's magnetic, in that could-be-an-actress kinda way. Beauty and charisma, where you can't take your eyes off her, and even if you could you really wouldn't want to.

She shows no sign of comprehension. Puzzled, frankly, that anyone would pay attention to her. Where her blonde girlfriend gets all the boys, and tells her so quite bluntly to her face.

Which endears me even more. If she were vain or shallow I'd probably be repulsed. Instead she's humble, actually confused to be thought of as attractive. A person of depth and decency, and bottomless reservoirs of pain.

We're not going to be everything we could. In my depression I'm not assertive, and she needs to be pursued. She needs to be picked up and spun around by strong men with long hair and tattoos who charm her and treat her like dirt. I lack not only the muscle but the daring. She'd have to show some sign of interest, and, for years now, she scrupulously has not.

I could swim around inside my regret, if I thought it would matter. It doesn't. We met at the wrong time, where we've both been jilted and traumatized, and we're each carrying the exact baggage the other can't overcome.

I think, she's my favorite person.