She isn't the girl who loved me the way I needed to be loved for once in my life, the girl who moved here with her little herbs and wide hands and matchstick limbs and bright, so f*cking bright laughter, but she is equally as important.
I call her the Redhead Hurricane, an apt nickname if you were ever to meet her.
Surprisingly, I don't love her in a romantic sense - I am inclined to fall deeply in love with people I've just met, to adore them and crave their attention. She was never like that. I love her like something closer than a sister. A partner, I guess? Life-partner, if that makes any sense. Soulmates, if I believed in them.
She's got this amazing red hair, like curling fire gathering around her shoulders, and when she gets really incensed by her newest obsession, her face turns the same color as it. She gets angry easily, is constantly in consternation by all the things I do - refuse to match my clothes, eat breakfast for dinner, over-caffeinate myself.
A month ago, she left me alone in a crowd after I asked her not to, and I had a panic attack. A full-blown one, that left me choking on any air I could get and with the low curling sensation of panic in my stomach, a slippery, greasy sensation that made me feel physically sick.
But that's -
It's not her, not really. The slightly-mean, hard-edged part of her? No, that's not her. Because she's kind, so kind, and she has always, always been there for me. When I was violently throwing up out a car window, she sat me down on the sidewalk at 12:01 at night and held my hair back from my face, a soothing hand rubbing circles over my back. She laughs like she's the f*cking sun, and took me to my first ever Pride Parade, held my hand when I told my closest friends I was queer.
My sister, MC, doesn't like her. Says she's too loud and too brash, that her personality's grating, and once upon a time, I would have agreed. The two of us hated each other with a burning passion up until we realized it was either us, alone and a little bit scared, or us against the world together. You can probably guess which one we chose.
When my parents split and my sister's brain did the loop-de-loop, she watched me cry and brushed my hair and helped me pick my outfits. She has always cared for me the best she can, and late at night when she's panicking and her friends are toxic to themselves, I spend an hour in the early, early morning texting her advice, and I never regret a moment of it.
I hope I don't mess this up. The easy thing we've got going on, her smile like a thousand dying planets all in star-bright unison, and me pretending to be less of the suicidal sack of depression I really am. She has never once told me I'm not worth it, and when she hugs me, it's like coming home.
Her hugs are warm and soft and all-encompassing, a gentle comfort. She is tremendously powerful, and she's the kind of person you get vibes off of saying stay away, I am going to do astonishing things and one day you will all know me as the person who accomplished everything anyone could.
The Redhead Hurricane is as close to home as I think a person could ever be. She is my life-partner, my friend, and something a little like salvation.
And I love her unconditionally.