Dear Yang (or Yin, if you want me to play Yang, it doesn’t matter),
That time when we sat across each other and you nervously stared at my cupcakes because the waiter did not place them symmetrically on the plate, I immediately knew that we would get along well; it’s good to know that I wasn’t the only order-freak in that dull coffee shop. When I shifted the blueberry one a little left, you smiled, probably a little surprised because I caught your cue, and that’s how we met.
You asked me to call you D (I still haven’t figured out what your real name is), and you named me A, a sharp guess from that letter keychain I put on the table. You took your red mug (was it hot chocolate?) to my booth, and with no introductory awkwardness whatsoever, we turned from complete strangers to old friends, swimming into brainy conversations about why aprons have dark colors to what’s wrong with today’s political system. I bet nobody would’ve seen that we were strangers just a few minutes back from that moment.
It’s in those short glances that we exchange when the grumpy grandpa enters our regular bus. It’s in how you finish my sentence when I’m still halfway to find the word and I to yours. It’s in our similar walking speed and childhood story. It’s in your obviously unfunny jokes that make me laugh anyway. It’s in our daily debates that help me see the world differently. It’s in the subtle flirts that make me blush when you’re not looking. It’s in your overflowing passion on subjects that I find very attractive. It’s in them—that I can’t resist falling to.
They say that everyone is a little weird, and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness called love. You would probably nod in silence to such idea because it’s sweet and all, but I personally think that (despite our almost identical weirdness), this unusual connection between us deserves a better description than than what the society understand as romance.
Remember that day when a boy on the street thought we were a married couple? My mind did wander and imagine if that actually happened—and truth be told, the visualization of spending every day with you sounds better than any other possible alternative.
Dear Yang (at this point you just have to accept the role I give you—plus ‘Yang’ sounds significantly more manly than ‘Yin’),
You are the most beautiful paradox that ever happens to me: to have found someone who thinks just like myself made me feel a little less special (apparently I’m not as unique as I thought I was), but at the same time I sense this indescribable happiness of sharing a special bond with someone I am quite confident to call my ‘other half’. I never dared to use the word ‘perfect’ next to ‘match’ before, but then I realized that it was probably because I haven’t met you.
I love how I can be completely myself when I’m around you. I love how you admit that you’re sometimes wrong. I love you how you let me hold the door open for you. I love that sometimes we take different trains so that one of us can arrive earlier and we can have that nostalgic ‘meet you at the station’ scene. I love that ‘birthday’ means museum trips in our dictionary.
My grandmother reads me enough bedtime stories to make me understand when a happy ending is coming. And I know mine is—but I’m gonna need you to confirm it. Because I might be delusional about what I wrote here—you might think the exact opposite, and I’ll be completely okay about it if you do. (You know better that I would secretly mind and feel depressed about it—can’t help, sorry—but I’ll get over it after some time. Don’t worry.)
P.S. I heard there are some good diners around in your new town. Take me to one as soon as we meet, okay?