My Friend Fiona
I'm just this guy, you know?
To expand on that, I am also the following...
- A former ficly member who is 38 years old and is schizoaffective (depressive type)
- Into creating languages and fantasy worlds from scratch
- A listener of audiobooks & good tunes
- Always too hard on myself
Fiona always wore socks that went half way up her legs. I remembered that about her.
It was a common theme to her look and as the fashion of stockings progressed so did she.
Sometimes it looked like galaxies climbing up her calves and I adored it for reasons that I couldn't quite verbalize. I just sort of "did."
She would always look at me with inquisitive looks. Especially when I said something nonsensical or stupid without realizing it. Her look always served to make me feel less stupid in the moment.
She was a comforting figure like that. I felt like anything that popped into my idiotic head could be said to her and she wouldn't think any the lesser of me.
I felt like she always understood somehow. Even my stupidest musing on the universe and philosophy were always met with a gaze that she was trying to stick with my mindset but just wasn't quite there, which was comforting.
Part of me knew that she'd never understand my perspective of our relationship, but part of me knew she didn't have to.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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And maybe she understands it better than he thinks.