“I love you,” he says. It means so much when being held on my bed, head dangling away from where I should be looking, unable to move from the sudden shock of what ever happened tonight. Because being told, “I love you,” can mean something much differently than what we’ve been taught. While being told, “I love you,” he will also, tell me that stars fell at the sight of every failure of mine, while we all falsely hoped I’d at least tap the tip of the ozone layer. They remember the time that I dreamed of the moon racing to me, joyously congratulating me on space endeavors only some dared to take. Nowadays, “I love you,” means asking why I drop into bed sheets every night, knowing all I had done that day was watch reruns of sitcoms until 1am. “I love you,” means asking why I fall into the gravel of this shrinking planet, replaying the hits and misses that flash onto my brain’s screen just like Big Brother’s announcement that he is forever watching you too. “I love you,” means asking why trees only use their roots to plant me in one place. “I love you,” means asking every question but never standing back once to listen. “I love you,” also means telling me that disappointment is the only thing I had created for nine months. And hearing the three words, “I love you,” and everything in between only reassured me that I had stayed, and had been stuck stagnant stiff because of you.