I was scared. I was tired. I felt alone and as though the whole world had forgotten me, millions of miles from a familiar face. In a foreign place, only five days in, I was facing my first Friday night completely, utterly in solidarity. As I opened the splintered wooden door to my stark, undecorated room after an endless day away, I saw a small package waiting for me. Who even knew my new address? As I tore the bright blue wrapping paper away from the soft, grey hardcover, I cried happy tears for only the third time in my life. There in my trembling hands was my soul, our souls. I never told you. I had in passing drunkenly mentioned my favorite author once months ago. Yet, as I felt forgotten about in a new place, you were following him close enough to know he was releasing his greatest book yet. You were thinking of me enough to make sure to buy one of the first copies and made sure it would welcome me home on my first Friday night completely, utterly in solidarity.
I miss feeling that way. I miss someone knowing me so well that they can read my thoughts and send me the first copy of a book from an unknown author who means the world to me, before I even have time to purchase it myself. Sometimes, honestly, I miss being read like a book.