If it hadn't been for that pure blind faith, you suspect you would be gone, dead, or lost.

If it hadn't been for the kindness, rough and burnt on the edges as it was, you would have fallen.

If it hadn't been for the sheer comfort that came from having someone similar, like you, you might have never given yourself a chance.

You were a weapon...

He supplied them thoughtlessly once...

You felt rage...

He did too. And sorrow, and sickness of a ravaged body...

True, unending, unkind, vomit inducing fear...

...of the self.

So many "If"-s and "Sholda", "Coulda", "Woulda", and "Maybe"-s that you can't even calculate without breaking out in a sweat...But he, the narcissistic playboy dick was able to relate. Closely and in depth. Almost creepily so if it had not been that he had earned every mental and emotional scar and wore them like badges of hidden honor.

But...

You had something to calm you, if only marginally.

Pure. Blind. Faith.

You're not sure, but as you sit here, talking, laughing, loving this man silently, you think that, maybe, you can convince him one day to be more than friends. Maybe.

You hope so.

Even so, even now, you wake to the mornings looking forward to the hours in his presence, of hearing his scathing and witticisms on everything, and learning things that make your heart stutter almost as much as when he touches your hand, leans against your back, pats your shoulder...

Please, please, please let this not be a dream.

Let this be real.

And, right now, as you let him lean against your chuckling, laughing, gasping from happiness and pure joy, it is as real as it needs to be.