If I told you one more time how much I love you, what would it mean to you? If I told you that, to me, each and every aspect of your being was something to be appreciated and cherished, would you believe me? There is no part, parcel, or portion of you to be found that I could not accept. That would make me care for you any less deeply or completely. Every fault, every flaw, every asset, strength, thought, every fear and wish inside your head, emotion locked up in your heart, is worth attempting to know and understand. They make you who you are: infinitely difficult, high maintenance, childish, complicated, impolite, selfish, emotionally stunted, honest, generous, adorable, intelligent, hilarious, oddly charming, caring, annoyingly-perfect-smiled… there is no list that could fully or accurately describe all the horror and wonder of what you are. But I would not change a single thing about you, be it good, bad, or mediocre. I adore you just as you are, would defend and encourage you at your worst and be blessed and proud to be able to see you as all of the things that you are so very capable of becoming. But, somewhere along the way, I made a colossal error. I thought that I could save you. And I foolishly believed that you might love me this way, too. These things were only ever up to you.