You think you don’t know who I’m talking about in all these poems and longings, but you do. I called her Shakespeare’s Sister (and still do, though I know her true name now) but you call her something different – or maybe she has no name to you, maybe she’s too ephemeral to hold a label. Either way, you know her. She’s in that song you love but never feel right listening to alone. She’s in that book you’ve worn to tissue paper from rereading but would still lend out in a heartbeat. She’s in that piece of art you saw once and can’t get out of your head but you don’t know why. She’s the one who first made you think maybe holding hands wouldn’t be so bad, or putting your head in someone’s lap – but only with the right someone. She’s the right someone for all of those dreams, for midnight star gazing and weekend road trips, for lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed and rainy evenings spent curled on the couch. She’s the right someone for everything you want, so maybe you dream about her all day because you know she has to be out there somewhere. She’s the right someone for you and only you, so maybe you try your hardest to never think about her because you’re sure she won’t ever be real. You write letters to her. You write poems about her. You doodle her in the margins of your notebooks. See? We’re talking about the same person. I found her first in the musings of Virginia Woolf and the music of Sixpence None the Richer but that doesn’t mean you didn’t, couldn’t, find her somewhere else. You’ll find her whether you look for her or not – and she’ll find you.