They say I have a type. That he’s so incredibly similar to you. Thick hair that tangles in my fingers, a love of cars that stops every conversation, and the habit of spoiling me with things instead of words. But they’re short sighted. You’re not alike at all. His hair is curls at the end where yours used to wisp. He likes how cars look, you love how they feel. And when he compliments me they’re just words. He calls me baby, sweet, soul mate, love. but you called me by my name and no one’s ever said it the same.