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Harry’s asleep—went to bed hours ago and I just…can’t. 

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In all the time away, I forgot. I forgot how much I like Harry. And that’s different, isn’t it, than being in lo—

I mean, I like her the way I like—liked Donnie. And Pete and Richie and Francis and Sylvie and Martha and Millie and every single person I’ve ever cared enough about to spend time with. 

I like her weird little bits of trivia, and her love of puzzles, and the way that she sees art as something important and vital in the world. I like her sharp sense of humor and how she’s gotten worse and worse over the years at pretending not to find my jokes funny. I like that she cares about doing right, but not doing good. Her moral compass is…well, it’s fucking infuriating, but its hers and she sticks to it. Okay, maybe I don’t like that as much as I respect it. 

I like that she demands respect. She always has. The guys always respected her and any time we were out and a man would be creepy toward her or condescending or just…annoying. She never took it. And I never did either but I’m —Harriet’s not built like I am, she’s slight and soft and feminine and men often think that means—

She’s strong in other ways. Ways that matter. Ways that I’m not. It’s not just the strength of her convictions, her immovable morality but the way that she weathers every single storm with grace and never breaks. We’ve both had our share of hardships, and they’ve been different kinds of hardships, but…I don’t know. 

If she’s telling the truth, which I think, finally she is, then she spent six years in the company of someone she wanted, someone she knew wanted her back and she denied herself out of a sense of guilt fueled by that moral compass. I denied myself out of fear, out of insecurity and doubt, but she…she resisted getting what she wanted because she felt she didn’t deserve it. 

I don’t know, maybe that isn’t strength. Maybe that’s just cruelty. Or maybe it’s neither of those things—I’ve never been a reliable character witness when it comes to her. 

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