I know everything about you. I know the basic facts: favorite color, favorite band, favorite movie/TV show, how many siblings you have, stuff like that. But I also know the weird and obscure things about you that very few people have the privilege of knowing. I know what time you naturally start to get sleepy (about 11:45pm-ish), I know about the adventure and tears behind the scar shaped like a toenail clipping, right by your left ear, just barely brushing your jawline, and I know how you like your toast: Grape jelly on Rye bread, just slightly toasted with the level 2 setting on your old black Oyster toaster.

I never understood how you could stand the taste of Rye bread. To me, it tasted like old people bread. The type that elderly men and women would take to the park to feed to the birds, but also save for breakfast the next morning. But to you, it was like a warm hug on a rainy day.

I remember one year you ate the same exact breakfast: Grape jelly on Rye with a cup of 2% milk and a banana, everyday. The mere thought of repeating the contents of a meal for 365 consecutive days made me sick. I wondered how you could stand it, let alone enjoy it with a half-awake smile on your face.

Today, I saw a coworker walk into the office with a slice of Rye topped with a smear of the familiar dark purple-y Grape jelly, and the floodgates opened as I burst into tears.