I’m learning that maybe I don’t need as much alone time as I once thought. Perhaps my desire to be alone was more one of self-preservation. Perhaps it was born of a belief that other humans were dangerous, and it was better to be alone with my books and my animals. And maybe, to some extent, that is true. People are fickle and callous with one another’s hearts. They do real harm to one another, and sometimes it does not seem to hurt them to do so. But they’re also kind, resilient, and empathetic. I want to be around them more. I want to cherish the good ones while I still have them. I think that being in love has made me love the world more. It has made me love myself more. I know that I have to love myself first. And I do, or at least, on a good day, I do, and on a bad day, I try to. But the other night, my partner told me, “I’m patient, you know? I won’t ever run out of patience for you.” Something in me broke and split open when he said that, and I felt that all-encompassing, messy emotion that we call love. The love that they talked about at church when I was a child, the peace which surpasses all understanding. The love that I had avoided for so long. But even in my avoidance, I kept running into myself. Because I do love. I love him, and the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and God, and my family, and my friends, and my cat, and my church, and my coworkers, and my apartment, and my books. I love the fragility of it all, which feels especially precarious right now. On the good days, I let my love override my fear. I used to think that I needed to be alone to be happy. I used to think that I was better off on my own. Now I see how wrong I was, and I rejoice and am glad of it.