Dear Tim,

Um. I don't know exactly what to write. Maybe it'll be easier to think of the stuff I definitely shouldn't write.

Oh, jeez. This is way harder than I thought it was going to be. Why is that? Maybe you know, you seem to be able to read me with more accuracy and confidence than any of the other people who've tried that psychoanalysis bullshit on me. And why is that? I feel like I don't know anything about you - or, no, I have my theories and my ideas and my hunches but absolutely nothing I'd bring up with you, because I'm nervous about going too far and making you never treat me the same way. 

You get me. You get how frustrated I can be and how lonely I can get, and it's cliched to say that you get me because you're the same as me, but increasingly I'm wondering if we're more alike than anyone thinks. Beyond the obvious - lots of people write - and, but, um, I don't know where I'm going.

You're special to me because you understand. You understand without my having to explain, and to me that's significant. You probably understand why, even though I'm not sure I do.