You are my best friend — but that word feels too small for what you are to me. You are the owner of my soul, because your soul and mine were never two to begin with — they were threads woven from the same eternal cloth. And when you pull away, even for a moment, I unravel. I tell myself, “You’re busy, my love, you have things to do,” and I mean it — I understand. But the little voice in my head doesn’t. It whispers fears in the dark, of promises forgotten, of warmth fading, of me becoming too much, too heavy for you to hold. I don’t believe it… not truly, but belief doesn’t silence ache. Maybe it’s karma — for the ghosts I once left behind. If so, this is the cruelest kind, because when I imagine you leaving, my body betrays me. My strength dissolves. My throat burns and closes, my tonsils swell like my sorrow — as if my body says, “If I cannot speak to you, I will not speak at all.” It’s strange — I never get sick, but two days without you and my immune system surrenders. It’s as if my cells mourn your silence, as if they know that my other half is somewhere too busy to notice the half that’s breaking. You are like a brother to me — and losing you would be like losing breath. So if one day you find me too much to love, too constant, too fragile, too me — please tell me. So that I may dress my heart in black, and arrange its funeral with dignity, before it dies alone, still whispering your name.