I don’t feel what you feel; I can’t, not exactly. But, I feel when you feel. The sadness you’re enveloped by, the demons you fight may not be mine, but they bring a melancholy I want to solve.

I’m a fixer by nature. I want to take what’s wrong and make it right. It’s the source of all my heartache and most of my devotions, but I’ve never tried to repair what’s broken in you. I accept you as you are, any imperfections are part of your charm. See, the secret is, that for every fault you have, I have more.

But, by God, do I struggle. I repress the urge to make it all better, to offer any solution that seems even remotely like it has a possibility of saving you from yourself.

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