She tells me I speak in riddles. Each sentence a vague blur of words that press her to ask more.
Her existence is intimidating. I’m barely confident enough to exist.
I’m holding up the walls with broken supports, each new message a pressure on the structure that keeps me intact.
She tells me we are friends. I didn’t try for this?
I tell her that there is a fatal error in the system. She tells me that sometimes the bugs are the best parts.
I tell her things about me that are mundane. I pick at myself, itching at the constant guilt. She tells me to have some faith in my likeability.
The cracks are visible, but maybe it’s just from the inside?
She calms me without even trying. The anxiety stifled by a smile or an affectionate jibe.
She tells me I speak in riddles. The biggest riddle is how this even happened?