I know I love you because I want to get you soup when you’re sick. I want to hold you when you’re having a nightmare and kiss the spot that
hurts when you bump into something. I know I love you because I want
you to be healthy even when you’re not sick, and that’s why I keep
bugging you to change your crappy eating ways even though I know you’re
over hearing about it. I know I love you because I worry about the stuff only people who love
you worry about, like the amount of quality sleep you get a night.
I know I love you because I freak out when you’re obviously
disintegrating yet too stubborn and too “I’m fine” to actually go to the
doctor, even though I do that sort of thing myself. I know I love you because I’m truly concerned with how your life turns
out. It’s not just that I want you to “be happy” or attain that vague
self-helpy “inner peace” bullshit we’re all supposed to aspire toward, I
want you to express yourself and be fulfilled and feel like you’re
living life for a good reason, not just passing the time. I want
everything to work out for you the way it should and I want to be there
for it, occasionally with champagne.
And I’m genuinely convinced that I love you because I want to do things
for you that I don’t want to do for anyone, ever. Examples: I’ll babysit
your loud sticky children when you have them. I’ll bring you ice water
and take care of you when you eat too much ecstasy like an idiot. That’s how I know I love you, and I hope you know it too.
