Him.

He doesn't say too much, but just enough of the right things, just like how it should be. He's quiet, brooding even and manages to remain mysterious after eleven years of friendship. I can't quite figure him out. He's sensitive but often sarcastic and purposefully grating. I am no mystery to him, as it would seem he knows me better than I'm willing to know myself. He laughs at my awful jokes and tolerates my often pointless stories. He's smart. He helps people for a living. He's everything I never thought I wanted or needed. He's nothing like the BMW driving, type A, power obsessed men I usually find myself attached to for no other reason than self torture. And while it seems to be such an unlikely match, it feels so effortlessly right even with the minor 350 mile barrier between us.