I remember my first real encounter with you, I think it was at the age of twelve. You were a gift from my father upon a trivial achievement. Picking you up was one of the most intelligent things I had done in the course of my childhood. I was fascinated by you but no, we hadn’t become friends yet. You were an alternative to television, a replacement for the injured player and a mistress to the married man. I saw more of you as I grew up and eventually came to the epiphany that I enjoyed your company more than that of people. Unlike the adults, you didn’t prejudice or discriminate and even your lies reeked of good intentions. Someone great once said that a friend is someone who holds your hand not only in your happiness but also in sorrow. Soon our relationship would be subjected to this judgment for I had acquired a liking for a boy. Not having read Gatsby back then, I was oblivious of the impending and inevitable doom it was about to deliver. Of course, it was just a minor inconvenience that I had equated to the end of the world. I resorted to you for comfort and escape and you gave depth to my thoughts. You educated me about the muffled whispers in the conversation of the elders. You built me for all the tomorrows. Calling myself an introvert would be an extreme hyperbole since I usually catch myself on social media or occasionally at parties taking cheap thrills of human interaction. But its no harry potter. I find myself most at peace when I’m in your company, Its an odd sort of solitude. We’ve come a long way, and we have an even longer way to go. It is a relief to know that I have you as a counsel and as an immediate shelter for whenever the world is going bleak.