Day before yesterday, on the phone, he said."but you never write of me." and I realised with a pang that indeed I haven't ever written truly about him, my boyfriend, except some rather stupid mushy and to undo the mush, cryptic posts. It has taken me a while to realise that like so many others, like in so many relationships, I have perhaps taken him for granted. I don't always realise the urgency in his across-the hemisphere calls-just to hear my voice, I don't always deal patiently with his need to feel my presence, even virtually before he goes to sleep, whereas he doesn't fail in taking some time out of his uber-busy schedule to call me as many times a day as I want him to. There are so many beautiful little things that he does, so many natural little flourishes here and there to make me smile, even though he can't see me smile across the oceans, so many times that he tells me I'm pretty (which is untrue) and so honestly, so earnestly that I start thinking I'm beautiful... It is he who is really beautiful. But I let him be the mirror and revelled in my beauty, and rarely ever let him revel in his. Strangely I sound like Martha in 'Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?' I don't know how to end my post. He's the support. I could have lived without him but I don't want to. Love you Souvick.