Does she know you can’t look in the mirror in the morning without hating your cowlick?
Did she notice how all your freckles seem to gather at your elbows?
Did she feel the little scars on your knuckles, the ones that remind me who you used to be, but make me happy that you’re better than that now, every time I hold your hand?
Does she know which parts of your tattoos are raised - just a little - from the rest of your skin?
Does she know you draw the layouts of everything, whether you’re telling a story about a place, or imagining a future house?
Does she know never to order ice in your drinks?
Does she know you don’t trust big dogs?
Did she ever get your real smile, or just the cocky, fake one?
Does she know what to say when you’re talking in your sleep so you don’t sit up and freak out?
Does she know not to tease you after you watch a scary movie in the dark, and just shut the door so you can stay under the covers?
Does she know you pull your socks all the way up not because it’s a habit from the Army, but because you’re a rollerblader?
What the fuck does she know.