I can name the exact brand of coffee my dad refuses to drink. I know the kpop idols that my little sister hates so much. I remember the exact moment when my older sister wanted to be a nurse. I could build a list of their likes and dislikes that would be so precise, you’d think I spent my life studying them like some kind of researcher cataloging rare species.
And yet, ask them to name one thing I truly love, one thing I can’t stand, one dream I won’t shut up about—and watch the silence stretch.
They could talk for hours about the things that bring them joy, their favorite foods, the shows that inspire them. But if I did the same—if I let myself talk freely, uninterrupted, about my passions, about the things that make me me—I’d be annoying. They wouldn’t care. They’d tune out before I even got the words out.
I know what they love to eat. I know the way they take their coffee. They could pick up dinner for me and grab something I hate, and somehow, somehow, I’m the one who’s difficult when I refuse to eat it.
I don’t ask for much. I don’t need grand declarations of affection or dramatic gestures. I just want someone to know me. To want to know me. To remember, the way I always remember them.
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