She wrote a poem about me too

I wouldn’t call it a masterpiece but its title was “I’m autistic and I love you” so I really couldn’t have asked for anything better I don’t think. 
All my old relationships were full of so much conflict. To me, this made them more interesting to write about but probably they weren’t any more interesting to read—it all only felt relevant as long as that person did too, or if there was someone else who was basically the same. An example: 
I did what I was supposed to do this fall and I read those diaries by Annie Ernaux about when she’s so in love with that guy. I liked reading them, but I felt mostly that she’d just feel differently about someone else later. Even then, though, I could see that I was thinking that way only because at the time I felt nothing for no one. There were definitely points when I had felt some kind of way she felt in those diaries 
            e.g., tortured, upset, in love, disaster 
but at the time I read them no one was torturing me and I didn’t care so much about the other people who had, so it was easy to think: I don’t know, Annie, I think it will be fine. 
Right now I’m not tortured and my girlfriend answers the phone, so I don’t have to read those diaries for instructions or even company. Instead, I can live my life, which doesn’t have helpful guidelines for much of anyone except maybe the one sentence, which Jenny said so many years ago but didn’t even matter until I lived it out anyway: I think you should date someone who 
really likes you. 
I don’t need further instructions right now and just want to run the air conditioner in my room, content on summer vacation and with all this energy for creative projects since I’m not trying so hard to fall in love, or make it keep happening.