A week ago, on just another Wednesday, it started to snow. The sky was a winter grey as it had been for months. It was a dismal day. Tired and stressed, I was sitting in my bed, a cocoon of quilts and sadness. To make matters worse, I was obsessing over a horrible book.

It wasn’t horrible because of the writing, the characters, or the plot. In fact, in terms of all the normal standards of a novel (at least my normal standards), it was fantastic. It was horrible because of what it made me feel.

Shaking, on the verge of sobbing, sitting in Spanish class was not how I wanted to spend my day, but this book…

Its name is unimportant. The author and the names of the characters were all lost to my literary brain. My literary brain is so focused on one small piece of this book: the family.

I live for the broken people finding themselves and each other, creating a home and slowly healing. This unlikely band of misfits characterizes so many of my favorite books, movies, and shows—my favorite stories. A found family will dig its claws into my heart and root itself there, consuming my thoughts and feelings for days.

Recently, I have come to the realization of why that might be. I crave acceptance. More than anything, more than grades, chocolate, or books, I crave love. I aspire to be nothing more than someone’s person. I have many dreams for the future, but every single one of them has a group of friends that are closer than blood.

One memory: a glimpse of white rapids, deep green trees, golden sunlight, and a new group of people. I was giddy for the first time in weeks. In early May, I had my heart crushed, but here in June, among these people, this group that I was a part of, I felt like myself again.

My friends vary. My relationships with them vary. Some are light, informal, casual. Some are not. Some could fade as easily as bright blue paint under a bright blue sky. Some have. Some, though, would need to be ripped from my hands, from my chest—a heart, still beating—for me to let go.

The problem, though, is that for as much love as I spill, I never know how much I am getting back. To love is a gamble, and I have lost too many times to count. But a stroke of luck is brighter than gold—bright as a genuine smile, ear-to-ear.

I have struck gold a few lucky times, but they are worth all of the love I have lost. Every heartbreak, every tear—they are worth it.

I keep gambling myself away, waiting for that next gold rush, the next four-leaf clover. I may be stupid and naive and socially awkward, but until the next win, at least I will have them.

A reader, an athlete, a writer, a joker, an overthinker, a singer, a fire.

My family. Some blood, some not.

So maybe I already have what I’m looking for.