I was born whole. Growing up, I was taught the opposite. I was half a heart, half a mind. I would find my other half some day. I would find that person that would complete me and make me whole. See, I didn’t realize that I am inherently whole until it was too late. Puberty was long passed, and I was already being thrown into the throws of Real Life™. But I know that now. I know that nobody can complete me. I am already complete.

I am whole. But I want to become a half of a bigger whole.

I want someone that will wait with me in lines, who will sway with me at concerts, who will take the pickles off my sandwich. I want to find new ways of holding hands, intertwining fingers until it is no longer you and me, but a mess of us. I want to lay under the stars and laugh about how cliche we are as we watch planes go by. We’ll pretend they’re shooting stars, but we won’t tell each other our wishes. I want to crawl into bed and instead of huddling up under the covers, I’ll huddle up in your arms. I want to be a half of us.

But I am already whole.