You know me so well, I love you so much.

To be loved is to be known. 

When you left practice early, you put my shoe in your locker so, while looking for it, I would find my phone and the jewelry that I put in there four hours prior. 

You did it without thinking. You know I would have forgotten otherwise; you say I always do. You’re surprised by my surprise. 

“You know me so well,” I joke. 

Your love is in reminders to bring what I need for school and to do the homework I told you I was avoiding; you know I’ve forgotten about it. 

“You know me so well,” I say with a grin when you play my favorite song from the AirPods that we’re sharing.

You can list my top five musicians off the top of your head, and I know that you really only have three favorites. 

You hand me a piece of gum and make a heart-shaped ring out of the wrapper. You’ve done the same thing for me since I asked you to a year ago. I haven’t had to ask in a while. 

You sit down on the familiar, carpeted floor next to me. You rest your head on my shoulder, and we sit in silence, reading each other’s minds. 

“You know me so well,” I sigh quietly between the whispers of threadbare motivation and soft nostalgia. 

The math homework we promised ourselves we’d finish sits empty in front of us. You told me you knew we weren’t going to do it, but I thought we still would. You say, “We’re too existential to be alone in a bookstore together.”

I believe you now. 

You say you know what I’m going to say seconds before I say it, you say you know we’re together in every universe, you say you know everything about me, and I say that if that doesn’t make us soulmates, I don’t know what does. 

You believe me.

“You know me so well,” I laugh when you tell me to charge my phone before I leave the house.

Your love is dissolved in the tears I cry when I laugh and the gasping breaths of laughter between inside jokes. 

You listened to the album I asked you to. You said you loved it, and I was too scared to ask if you were lying. 

You know my favorite color, favorite book, my favorite planet, subject, and time of day. You know the things I lied about in middle school and how much I dread going to the dentist.

You mention off-handedly that you heard a girl arguing about the influence of Frida Kahlo. You say she reminded you of me.

“You know me so well,” I say, smiling at you.

I think, “No one has ever loved me this much.”