Late Night Lovin'

I cried last night and I cried for very, very good reasons.
Last night was absolutely lovely. The loveliest. There was a student musician showcase concert that I went to. The whole day had been just very off and odd and bad, one of those moods where I feel like everything I do is just made of failure. Still not entirely sure of whether I was right or not, whatever.
I am extremely close to this girl named NLE. Not romantically, but very close. She was there, too. So this girl named NLE and I decide to make the most of the music. When the larger bands came on, we decided to skank and just dance however the hell we wanted to to each and every song. Did we look weird and imbalanced and drunk? More than likely, but we so thoroughly enjoyed it. We looked so wild, I'm sure, and we felt awesome just getting everything out. I think that's what it was. She's had problems with a boy; I've been making up problems with a girl. She got too dependent on him too fast and found out he's not the kind of person you leave your things with. I just have the usual shyness that comes up when I want it least and beat myself up for being so complacent when I apparently have such a good chance. We confided within each other these feelings after the show.
We went off on a tangent. I forget where our conversation crossed into another, but I remember now. I found a small purple Swiss Army knife left behind in our room. Must not mean anything, since no one's looked for it. We talked about that, then we talked about cutting. She's the only one who knows about it here. We talked about it again last night. "Did I ever tell you that I used to cut, too?" I bet I looked astonished. She showed me a tiny scar nestled in between the wrinkles of her left wrist. She says most of hers are somewhere on her legs. We talked a lot about this kind of stuff. The emotional breakdown in front of my parents, and the awkward night my Ma first rubbed her hand across my scarred shoulder, how my dad didn't believe her until he saw them, too. She talked about her medicated youth, the helplessness of her parents when she would bang her head against the wall when she was little. She described it to me, and I could perfectly imagine the ironic little lamp adorned nightstand in her room, its bottom drawer with her medications, then articles on borderline personality disorder that doctors had given her, then her unbroken safety razors. We talked about what we thought about when we did it, why. We both had the same complex guilt. "I feel like shit and I feel so so so stressed, but I have no reason to." We felt we didn't deserve to complain. When we cut, that's when we knew damn well why we felt the way we did. What nuance in such an ugly thing.
It's not just the cutting. It's the extended meals we have, the almost empathetic connection we share. The sheer synergy. It's also the other stuff we talk about with each other, the helping out with stupid problems we probably make up all ourselves anyway. I got to telling her how happy I was that I had her as such a close friend, how grateful I am to myself for swooping in on her that one night after dinner. How awesome we've been since. I teared up, and I almost shed them.
I'm so happy about her.