You changed your shirt three times. I saw you. You held one up, then another, then went back to the first one. That means you care. I like that you still care.
You keep touching the fork even though there's no food yet. You always did that when you were nervous, lined the crayons up before you drew anything.
The other person is laughing. You made them laugh. When did you learn to do that? I used to think grown-ups just knew things. But you're figuring it out right now, tonight, one sentence at a time, same as me learning to ride the bike.
You didn't tell them your real dream. I heard you say your job and where you live and the show you watch. You didn't say the big one, the thing we were going to be. Maybe later. Maybe you're saving it.
Here's what I want to know. When they asked what you like, and you said your walks, and your coffee place, and that book, were those true things or safe things?
Because I remember what you actually like. You like it when it rains hard and you're the only one who runs outside. You like finding a dog that lets you pet it. You like the exact second the streetlights come on.
Tell them that stuff. The real stuff. That's how they'll know it's you.
And if they're nice, if they're really nice, will you let them meet me too?