He says he likes me because he knows deep down past my exterior that I am an old soul.
I tell him, “you don’t even know me; what do you know?”
But I know he’s right.
And I’ll never admit it.
Because if you know anything about old souls you know we believe in romanticism in everything we do, in everything we see.
And it’s much too soon and too dangerous for him to be so sure of that part of me.