F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
i die e.e
Seriously, imagine for a moment that you were dating him. Very difficult, I know, but run with me.
He is so god damned tactile. He’s always stroking something, patting something, running his fingers over something. Now imagine sitting on a sofa next to him or whatever while you’re both absentmindedly watching a movie.
You know bloody well those hands are going to end up stroking your forearm, or doodling along the inside of your thigh, or whatever.
I hope one day you’ll find the right person.
I hope one day you’ll find someone whose presence is enough to soothe your pain.