She knew him so well by now.
She could recite facts about him in her sleep.
She dreamt of him often, whether she was asleep or not.
He consumed her entirely.
He took away her meaning, and replaced it with his own rendition.
But she was not to blame.
It was meant to be.
She was content with her destroyer.
For she knew that the greatest gift he had given her was the chance to know him.
He liked to draw, to create with his hands.
Unbeknownst to him, he did the opposite just as well.
He spoke in an even tone, afraid to offend someone with his volume.
But even the lowest frequencies penetrated her bones.
He held open doors, he said "please" and "thank you" and "Have a good day!"
And she often wondered what it'd sound like if he looked at her someday and said, "I know."
Not a confession.
Not an "I love you."
Just an "I know."
So that her cowardice didn't have to lift the burden of her love alone.
For now she had to settle with, "I hope I'm paying you enough."
She should have been paying him.
But alas, that was what she meant to him.
A stranger to relinquish embarrassing worries to.
A stranger.