I’d like to be her when I grow up

So there’s this woman I know, who sort of recognized that I was slowly breaking, and though she barely knew me, stepped in and helped me out. She gave me a cosy cave I could escape to when I needed to check out from life for a while. She is the best practitioner of “tough love” I have ever come across. She is refreshingly honest and blunt when it’s needed, and always manages to impart that undercurrent of care and concern that is sometimes necessary, but would be overwhelming if let loose entirely.

She always managed to maintain the balance, and gave me what I needed to prop myself up again, without ever letting me off the hook, forcing me to make my own decisions. Shows me the door, but refuses to help me open it.

She’s seen me up, she’s seen me down. She’s made me laugh and cry. She has inspired me, and she has made me despair.

She’s restored my faith in women.

My close friends have always been male. I’ve just always found it easier to understand how their head’s work, and women have rarely made sense to me. Unpredictable, I guess.

Living with them is even worse. She managed to change my perception on all of this, and on so much more.

She helped me be strong, once more. I had forgotten how.

Now we are continents apart, and I miss her like mad. Her counsel has proved invaluable, and her company remarkable.

Now she’s hurting, and I can’t fix it.

I know it will pass. I know that soon enough, she will have collected herself and take another step forward, gathering energy and happiness as she goes. But me knowing does not help her any at all.

I can’t shake her and tell her she’s being silly, and is melancholy because of her upcoming bday and all the silly things society attaches to round numbers. I can’t pamper her. I can’t taker her out and make her forget for a while. I can’t hold her if she wants to cry, and I can’t make her laugh.

All I can do is tell her how much I love her.