I regret not writing about him until now. He has always been there for me. My shadow. So much like me, in so many ways. The same personality, the same fears, the same doubts, the same experiences. We were broken tree branches, burning, hurting, under the same wisps of flame. We’ve shed tears for people who never deserved our love, we’ve worn out our muscles for people who never deserved our efforts. He was my shadow, and sometimes I forget that he’s witnessed through all my hardships, when everyone else has left. He’s my shadow, and to love him as more than a friend would be narcissistic of me. What would I love about him? The things I see in myself? No, he is better off a shadow to me – a subtle, quiet companion that I can never hold as if he’s my own. He belongs to someone else, someone who sees him not as an intangible outline, defined only by another person; rather, someone who sees him as light himself.