Work Text:
John, I think, because there is no other thought left to me, only John in every room I entered and every room he left, John laughing, John furious, John asleep in the chair, John saying brilliant as though the word belonged to me, and perhaps it did, perhaps I was brilliant because he saw me, because he looked and I existed, ridiculous dependence for a man who despised it, but there you are, you, between Sarah and Jeanette and whoever came after, between dates and women whose perfume I could name, I took what remained, takeaway, a knee against mine in a cab, his hand on my sleeve when danger came too near, mornings when he forgot to leave, evenings when he chose Baker Street, and I made a kingdom of scraps, called it friendship because the alternative had teeth, called myself fortunate because wanting him was more happiness than I expected, and even now the wind is cold and London opens beneath me and I am grateful, John, grateful for every stolen minute you never knew you gave me, every look that meant nothing to you and everything to me, every careless touch I carried for days afterwards, because I loved you from the first, John, I loved you through all of it, and I would have loved you forev—