Being known is a rare thing. People spend years trying to show the world who they want it to see, while hiding the parts that truly matter. But with you, there was none of that.
You knew me. Not just the version I showed to others the one that laughed easily or pretended nothing hurt but the one I carefully hid, the one I whispered to in my own mind, the one I wasn't sure anyone could ever understand.
And somehow, you did.
I remember the first time I realized it. We were sitting together, doing nothing in particular, and I let my thoughts spill without thinking. Normally, I would have censored myself, worried about judgment, about being too much. But with you, the words didn't need armor. You didn't blink. You didn't flinch. You simply listened.
It was like finding a part of myself I didn't know was missing.
From that day, I felt a strange mix of comfort and fear. Comfort because someone finally understood me. Fear because I realized how fragile that comfort could be. Once you know someone too well, you also know how easy it is to lose them.
We started sharing pieces of ourselves we didn't share with anyone else. Secrets we wouldn't write in diaries, thoughts we didn't even dare say out loud, fears that were heavy but suddenly lighter when spoken. And in those moments, the world outside didn't matter. The noise, the pressure, the chaos none of it existed. There was only us.
It's a strange thing, being known by someone so completely. It's thrilling. It's terrifying. And it's addictive.
I didn't know then that one day, the comfort of being known could start to feel like a weight. That the very closeness I cherished could be tested by distance, silence, and unspoken misunderstandings.
But for now, in this moment, I didn't care. I only cared that you were there. That we were us. That being known was a gift we gave each other without even realizing it.
And maybe, that was the most honest part of our friendship.