People ask me what it is about him that I love the most, and I always laugh a little. There is no one trait I love the most. I answer differently every time. His gentleness, I’ll say. His compassion. His goofiness. His respect for people.
Then they’ll ask what I noticed about him first. Again, I can’t nail down one thing. I don’t remember the first time I met him. I remember the second time I met him, and his face was covered in heavy facepaint at the time. Only his blue eyes showed through. And one conversation confirmed our similar music tastes.
Sometimes they ask when it was that I knew I loved him. Again, there are a dozen little incidences I could name. There wasn’t a concrete moment, although there are plenty of likely candidates. Maybe it was when I was in Croatia without him and I missed him so much I was sick, or maybe it was that time we performed in a murder mystery dinner. Or maybe it was when he called my name in the hallway after a class a semester or two after becoming his friend, and i thought, deep in my mind, that his voice sounded like coming home.
People ask, and I laugh, because if they wanted the full answer to any of these questions, I’d have to give them answers for hours. And I would.