When people ask what my type is, I never think of a person, I think of a feeling Because my type has never been looks or labels, it has always been the person who makes me forget to perform. The one who brings out the version of me that laughs too loudly, flirts like it is instinct, hears the shift in my voice before I notice it myself, remembers the little things I say without making a show of it, finds humour in my seriousness, lets me ramble, makes ordinary days feel less flat, notices when I am overwhelmed, respects my silences, never makes me choose between honesty and peace, meets my softness with their own, makes effort feel natural, listens with curiosity not obligation, feels steady even during my chaos, sees me in ways I have not yet learned to see myself, treats comfort like an act of love, knows when to lighten the moment, holds space without taking the space, lets me be the real version of me without hesitation, and loves the parts of me I thought I had to hide. My type is the person around whom I stop editing myself, the one who makes my inner child feel safe to come out, and loves me a little more on the days I cannot find anything lovable in me. And the beautiful thing is, when you meet someone like that, you realise you were not asking for too much, you were simply waiting for the right person to understand you.