It is strange, in a way, that it's you teaching me certain things about myself; you who are so far removed, as compared to the irritatingly close men who came before.
Alright. You'll be Mr Mixed Messenger, I'll be Miss Intimacy Issues.
You're making me wonder where these issues came from, how I came to function the way I do. It is strange, going back in memory this way, trying to identify all the ways in which I have been somehow different, after having dismissed exactly this kind of behaviour as teenage silliness; having spent years altering and modifying and normalizing, significance leaking out of every scene.
And perhaps it isn't surprising at all, that it's you, inspiring this: You were, I think, the first who ever made me face some of these issues; it might be natural that I begin to question my reactions to you, as we meet again, with all those years in between.
All those times I dreamt about you, you were always trying to tell me things, without ever uttering the corresponding words.