On July 17th, 2016, I met you for the third time. Our encounters have always been short and sweet, so once again, I didn’t get to say half of what I wanted to. Even though I don't freak out when I talk to you, my mind tends to shut down and I can never manage to say the right words.

I wish I knew how to fully express my gratitude to you; for your songs and your lyrics, for your mind, for your poetic nature, for your goofiness and your seriousness. I wish the right words existed in the right order so you could begin to understand how special I think you are.

I don’t know what it is, but when I meet someone who I believe is special, I get a feeling. Maybe I become attuned with their aura or something, or maybe it’s just a gut-feeling, but I know in my heart that their souls are full of light and paved with the best of intentions. I don’t feel that way about many people (in fact, I can count the number of people on one hand, and I haven’t met two of them), but I feel that way about you. Regardless of how you feel about yourself, I think you’re one of the most beautiful people in the world, inside and out. Your eyes are the prettiest shade of blue-green I’ve ever seen; nearly aquamarine but not quite, they’re among the rarest of gemstones. They’re thoughtful, inviting and inquisitive, and I’m pretty sure I got lost in them the second time we met because you were wearing sunglasses during the first. Your jaw is slightly crooked, which makes for one of the cutest, most genuine smiles I’ve ever had the privilege to see. Although your physical attributes deem you attractive by society’s standards, they aren’t what makes you beautiful to me.

Every time you speak with someone, you focus all of your attention on them, like they're the only person in the world who matters. Whenever I see an exchange between you and another fan, it looks so personal and intimate, and I pray that we can have a conversation like that one day. My only hope is that I actually have something intelligent and intriguing enough to share with you. Your poems and your prose are comparable to the classics; with a very modern twist, of course. You spill your thoughts and your fears and your joy and your love into your work, and the connection that’s made because of it is infinite. Your voice is my favourite thing about you, though. It’s soothing and warm, and it brings me comfort and security, like a stuffed animal or a baby blanket. It’s also worn and weathered; you’ve braved many storms and fought many battles, and it’s evident in the way you speak. I could listen to your voice alone for the rest of my life, and I know I’d never tire of hearing it. It’s my favourite song.

Please never change. Please stay happy and reckless and goofy and stupid. Love fiercely and softly and carefully and fearlessly. Protect your heart, but let it breathe. You are so important, so essential to this life. Keep changing lives the way you’ve changed mine.

Until next time, John O’Callaghan.

-Bree