Photographs

If my anxiety were a person, she'd wear her hair in a different style every week. She'd be loud and passionate, but deeply personal too.

She'd be the friend I've known so long I can't really remember a time when she wasn't around.

If my anxiety were a person, her reputation would precede her. People would say she feels too much and doesn't think enough; they'd say she laughs too loud and could stand to lose a few pounds.

If my anxiety were a person, we'd have gotten into a few screaming matches, there'd be times when I'd swear I'd never speak to her again.

But eventually, one would call the other, we'd crack a couple jokes and I'd smile at the sweetness of her laugh. The ice would thaw and we'd meet up for coffee, a coffee she'd be punctually twelve minutes late to.

If my anxiety were a person, I'd be guilty of taking her for granted and acting like she's a burden. I'd be guilty of accusing her of always raining on my parade, of never seeming to be able to just be happy for me.

I'd be guilty of telling her that if she could just stop worrying all the time, it'd be easier to be her friend.

Instead of responding, she'd pull out all the photographs she keeps in her satchel. Photographs of my parents hurting me, photographs of when I couldn't fit in at school, photographs of when she was left to pick up the pieces of a life she didn't break.

If my anxiety were a person, she'd lift up her face and I'd see all the pain she holds in her eyes.

I wouldn't know what to say, but I'd put my hand over hers, knowing I was witnessing a love so profound it keeps chasing me, no matter how many times I run.