I’ve had a favorite book since I was 14. It’s still my favorite, a decade later. Except now it carries more meaning because the story behind it, the intense emotions remind me all too strongly of the beginning of my relationship. I tried to share this book with my partner, but his disinterest in something that was so important to me literally ached in my chest. I couldn’t keep asking to read him a chapter or a phrase and just take the hurt when he only acquiesced.
And tonight, while asking him about his belief on something, prodding the way a person does when they care to know what you think, I realized a part of me was wishing I had someone that cared what I think. Someone who held conversations with me that they were interested in beyond them finishing their thought, them being heard. I sat in silence and felt this dull despair, of course this is unequal. Of course you’re interested and they’re not. I couldn’t sleep so I turned to my favorite book, as I do often at night. And I was struck again by the similarity between the emotions expressed in the book and those of our early months. And I wished I had someone to share beautiful things with. I wished for it so deeply that I could’ve turned to stone from sadness. Entrusting people with the things I love is so precious to me. It took months of our relationship for me to finally tell him the title of my favorite book.
He’s never asked about it since.
He didn’t ask about it then.
He only asked in the honey dripping days of our start.