Her.

She carries a kind of calm, but when she does speak, it tends to mean something. There's nothing performed about her warmth, steady on the good days and just as steady on the harder ones. 

Our humor doesn't always match mine. She'll say something and I'll take a second longer to catch it, or mine lands weird and she laughs. We still get each other, even when it doesn’t quite line up.

There's a softness to her, one you only really see if you're paying attention, a patience that feels almost hard to find these days, in a world that rarely slows down.

She's never once made me feel judged for my mess, my mood, or the days I disappear into my own head. She feels like something lasting. The kind of person who feels like home, long before you even notice that's what's happening.