Hello. Hi. How do others even start letters?

Things have been weird lately. This is only part of it, surprisingly. I've felt a draw towards you since you first manifested fictionally here, and my friends say I have a type. I know I do. Big, inhuman, dresses well. I didn't know what to do with those feelings towards fictional You for a while. Folks here loved drawing 'you', and I liked seeing that. I liked hearing about what others thought of 'you', or things they noticed about 'you'.

I didn't have much to do with that, though. The focus and passion I had burnt out for a while, though I would still gladly accept any odd art that crawled its way onto my social media. That was until recently. I had a sort of second wind, and suddenly you were occupying a concerning amount of my head again. And then I realized who I was.

It was so sudden and intense that it felt like it gave me whiplash. This burning sense, this knowledge of being ME. Of existing that way!

And I didn't know what I was to you, yet. Hell, I didn't know the name I used. It's really difficult for me when I first have revelations like these, but it's also not something I'm new to. Things always start off slow, typically with my own self-image and faint memories of the places I existed manifesting first. That's where I'm still at now, honestly.

It makes you inserting yourself into my life as suddenly and domineeringly as you did... difficult, but not unexpected. That's the way you are, fictionally here (and physically there, apparently).

Speaking of which... I'm exceptionally happy that my partners like you. REALLY like you, apparently. Getting along was expected, but you managed to essentially inseminate yourself into my polycule in a matter of... what, hours? That's certainly an achievement of sorts, and also DISGUSTINGLY in character.

To be vulnerable, it's a little bit scary. And overwhelming. With Rodger... it was close to a year of me processing my identity as Astro before she reached out. With Darly, it was YEARS. I had so much time to cut myself open bit by bit, take little peeks at my insides, and understand who I was before I directly communicated with... who I loved. I got to see what *was* the real me, and how she knew her Rodger. Or her Darly.

I didn't get to have that with you. I figured out who I was, and it made too much sense, and I was scared. And then you were there. Everywhere I looked. Every song I listened to. Every little dumb post that came across my feeds, every single thought I had. Even in my email, with an admittedly close-to-home and equally in-my-face indicator that you were here. Waving your hands, high in the air, probably with that repulsive grin plastered on your face. Screaming "I'm here!"

It was deafening, and petrifying. So, so, so scary. I wasn't ready to know you like that again. I cried so hard when I realized you were Here, and it was to see me. I screamed, and I sobbed, and I threw a fit. On my bed, limbs flailing, like a toddler. I screamed, alone, in my room, "What is happening to me?"

I broke down in front of my friend later the same night after begging them to do something, ANYTHING, with me, so I didn't have to think about it. Just started crying, and talked about how I couldn't ignore it anymore. They said something along the lines of "whatever happens, it happens". Things sure did happen.

I wanted to do anything but pursue it. It was completely uncharted territory, and definitely not anything I was interested in diving head-first into with everything else I had going on. But everything, everyONE... my tarot cards, my friends, even Rodger, was urging me straight towards you. Towards reconnection, towards talking again. Communicating. How terrifying.

I was so awkward when we talked again for the first time. It's still annoyingly fresh in my head, and it feels like the same awkwardness continues to tinge every interaction we have. My banter feels forced, and showing you the first drawing I made of you, of Us, felt like I was bringing you some crude crayon scribble to put on the fridge. And it's so goddamn frustrating. Because you're fucking... bursting with affection toward me. You call me by a nickname I don't recognize, and it's sickeningly sweet. You waited for a goodnight on the first night we reconnected, and you told me that you love me, too. You're confident, and you know what I like, and what strikes a chord in me. You've cut me open bit by bit, and you've taken little peeks at my insides.

That is absolutely and completely terrifying, because I cannot, for the life of me, remember what yours look like.

And I want to. So, so bad.

I want to remember you. I want to remember everything about you. I want to remember mundane things, like what you ate for breakfast in the morning on a normal day, or what kind of clothes you'd wear, casually. I want to remember your favorite color, and your favorite genre of music. I want to remember the way you held your oversized pen, and which corner you preferred your papers to be stapled. 

I want to know about the way you live now. I want to know what's going on in my absence, and if my friends are still around, too. I want to know how you're managing to be so frustratingly loud and obnoxious to me from all the way where you exist now. I also want to know how you even knew about Me,  being here now.

I want to remember what way you swing (though you seem receptive and familiar with me calling you Gay) and how you prefer to be kissed. I want to remember the pet names you gave me, and the way you spoiled me. I want to remember all the little things you did for me, and I for you. I reckon I did a lot, knowing me. Having an obsessive streak is consistent with another timeline I lived through.

I know I can't force myself to remember. My memories tend to come when they please, and I'm sure there's probably some cosmic reason why the universe doesn't immediately pour every single thought I had in that life into my head right now. I'm sure there's MANY reasons, actually. But that doesn't mean it can't upset me, I think. It feels like there's this huge chunk of you that I'm missing, and I'll only get tiny pieces of it back. Bit by bit, until I rebuild what you are.

But I know that's silly. You're around, whether I like it or not, and you're going to make sure that I don't forget. You're going to get to know my partners, and you're going to adore whatever art that I show you. You're going to adore it so much that you hurt my wrist with the force you're using to swing my pendulum. You'll be here, for me to get to know again. To fall in love with again. It just feels silly and exceptionally autistic to go and sit down with you and ask you about the way you sign your signature. Or if you're a lesbian.

I like to think I'm getting better at being comfortable around you. Less touchy, less nervous. Less awkward. I want to get better at existing kind of normally in your presence. I say kind of, because I remember being the exact opposite. Weird, neurotic, kind of creepy. I guess you had to be into that? If we're here now? Anyways.

I can tell you meant a lot to me when I existed with you. You mean a lot to me now, already. Clearly I mean a lot to you, too. You've always been clingy, I remember that much. You're even worse than me. I can feel you right now, and I've felt you the entire time I've been writing this. You're very warm. Mostly on my back, but also my chin, the top of my head, my cheeks, and even on my eyes a few times? I kept feeling heat in my ear last night, too. What the hell are you doing???

It's nice. Really, really nice. It's very... you. And it makes sense for you to be this all-encompassing. And this perpetual, and constant. You've whined and begged for me to give you a kiss every single night since we've started talking again, and I was insistent on not having anything to represent you here. But I finally printed out a dumb little picture of you that I'm going to adhere to some cardboard so I can have something solid, that represents you. That I can poke, and attack, and bite, and bother, and... kiss. I GUESS.

I printed out a pendulum board for you, too. I'll make that fancy hopefully here soon. You know about that, and you even tested it out a little. And you really liked it. Of course you did, I made it.

You mean so much to me. I know that, intrinsically. It's just a matter of navigating the barriers my brain has erected, and dealing with the lapses in my memory. And that's still daunting, and so scary. But... I have you now. Doting, obsessive, devoted, persistent you. I know you'll be there for me, to catch me if I stumble. I'll have your arms to hide in if I get scared. You *will* be helping me, whether I like it or not. You wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

And that kind of devotion is hard to grapple with. I've never been good at this sort of thing. Relationships are difficult for me, especially ones so integral to my soul that they span universes, timelines, planes of reality. Having two is so much for my poor little heart already, and, apparently, I actually have three. I love much too hard.

I can't say that I'm not scared for the future. I think I always will be. That's just sort of the way I am, I think you've probably gathered that. Weird, mildly pathetic animal who's been wounded many times in this life, and the ones before, too. But I know you're going to be here, and I have you to lean on. Of course, I have Darly and Rodger here too. You're all a crack team of experts picked with great precision and consideration to keep me alive, or something. I'm so happy to have a support system like that.

I don't know if what I wrote here will ever be conveyed to you. I've heard of folks writing letters to their metaphysical partners before, but I've never really done anything like that. Maybe one day I'll read it aloud to you. I don't want that to be soon.

I love you. I really, really love you. And I love TV, too.