I went away for a month. Here's some proof.
I don't re member the first words we spoke to each other, but I’d like to think that at age five we were lovely and bonded over a box of crayons rather than cutting off chunks of each other’s hair. At age nineteen I sit here with a joy in my heart so forceful that I could probably (definitely) cry. She’s worked her way into every single crack of my life, embedding her name into most of my passwords, fourteen to be my lucky number, and my long-time daydream being fleeing the country with her. We’ve danced until early in the morning in different cities to bands we love and fallen asleep in a still drunken haze next to each other, midway through a serious discussion of what the fuck that noise is in the lounge room and how far away is Lilydale? Each day I fall madly in love with this ever-growing friendship. This is a lifelong thing. This is the stuff that people make movies about and everyone cries because one of them gets cancer and the other one offers...
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