There’s a popular expression used after two people pass each other, 

somehow neither noticing the other’s presence—

Two ships in the night.

That expression does not apply to us. 

We, my friend, are not two ships in the night. 

Well, maybe we are. 

We are two ships, or were two ships,

that mystically, beneath the vast, unexplainable blanket, collided. 

At that moment, I hadn’t noticed that my anchor had drifted down into the depths of the sea—

your force struck me so hard that I fell immobile.

I relied on you, praying to the stars that you’d never abandon me. 

I was lost, and you were my only constant.

Some days, the fog would lay so thick

that I truly couldn’t tell if you were still there or not, 

and nevertheless, you always were. 

After long days of idleness, though, I grew restless,

yearning for the freedom that had drifted from me on the day of our collision. 

I did not believe I could sail with my anchor down, yet I needed to try. 

So, I sailed and chugged and forced all my energy into gaining that freedom. 

Nothing. No movement. No progress. Nothing.

Until one day, it happened. 

The anchor dragged on and dug into the sand and slowed me down, it did, but I was moving. 

And now, instead of tying you down—practically drowning you in a pool of constant worry—

we can sail away and explore the world together

like two ships in the night.