“I’m going to worry about you.” He looks me in the eyes as he says this and I lean into him, because I know what it really means is that he loves me. My roommates and I used to say “be safe” to mean the same thing.
We are standing on his roof at midnight, and I have to admit that the Manhattan skyline might be more impressive than Houston’s… and maybe, just maybe, I could see this being where my world tour ends.
I am back where I started in every sense of the word. And as my history bubbles up in the form of people who at one time or another once held my heart, I feel myself transported back to those past versions of me.
I see myself through their eyes: when naivety propelled my boldness and I was innocent to a fault; when I was selfishly unaware at the expense of others; when I was fiercely and unconditionally loyal; when I took risks and let curiosity guide me; when I honestly opened up and began to search for more.
I was always so different, I think, though it’s possible that I am the only person who thinks this about my progression.
I expect there to be a disconnect when I run into these people, an awkward lull when we realize that everything has changed. I am surprised to find how much this is not the case, how many of these people also say they will worry about me, and how easily we still fall together.
I really need to be more aware of the staggering number of people who care about me.
Sometimes it’s good to go back.