I’m sorry I don’t know your birthday, that I wouldn’t recognise your handwriting.

I have never heard your laugh. I wonder what your voice sounds like, I can imagine it in my head but it’s just a guess.

Do you write with your right hand or are you a leftie like me? Do you dress brightly? I would guess that you do.

I’ve never been in your car, I don’t know what you drive. I wonder if you’re bad at parking like I am?

I wouldn’t know what to order you if we met for lunch, I’m not sure of your favourite drink.

.

Yet I know your deepest insecurities and your vulnerability in the middle of the night.

I know the comments your mother in law makes that strain your marriage. 

I feel your exhaustion in every night message and I feel your joy in every tiny milestone your little one reaches.

I know your toddler’s favourite yogurt and how you soothe them to sleep.

Emotionally I go through every doctors appointment and nursery visit with you, every work success you have and each rant when days are hard. 

The big stuff, the small stuff, the wouldn’t-say-this-to-anyone-else-stuff.

.

What a strange friendship this is, my online village, my tribe. 

How much there is I don’t know – but oh how special the stuff is that I do.