He called me Needy. All causal and matter of fact-with the wry, knowing smile of understanding-like it’s not the worst thing a millennial cool-girl can be, a mortal sin. And I resent it, the truth of it. I resent that he noticed and is perhaps amused by it. (Irritation will come eventually.) I need too much. I crave attention. I want to be held. It embarrasses me, the way I save up and remember loving words I receive and hold them to my heart like silk to one’s cheek. Touch, whether rough or affectionate, is lifeblood to me. I want to learn to be happy with myself. At peace with solitude. I shouldn’t want to be loved and cared for like this, as though only then do I begin to exist.