Make a name for yourself, dear.

  It's just a name. So why does it seem so taboo. No, not "taboo." That's not the right word.
  Notable. Unique. Special.
  But it's not really. Practically. Inspected from the outside looking in, it's just a name. A sort of ordinary one at that. And plenty of other people say that name day after day, turn it inside out, wear it around like a warm wool sweater, break it in like a pair of old gardening boots caked with the mud and roots and smell of the last spring day. It's used and well-known and garden variety.
  To me, though, it's special. It rarely slips out of my mouth. Because if it does, it might break the spell. The delicately pink-as-a-blushing-bride bubble that shimmers around and makes it exceptional.
  What's in a name? A person's identity lies hidden behind just a few small letters. Everything, every memory, every adjective that describes that one human being. Their crooked smile or the way they lean forward when they have something to say or how they hold their pencil, drumming it absent-mindedly against the desk.
  So why is his so special? Just a few simple letters but don't talk about, don't say them, don't let your mouth form those consonants because the spell might be broken, the magic might be lost, the eggshell flimsy and fragile connection of his name to my heart might be severed.
  Like a pair of scissors sharp as the tongue cutting through the silver string that links my heart to my soul to my head to my feelings for him. Silly feelings that make little sense. Feelings that I've denied and resented and denied again. But they're there. As plain as his name printed, letters stamped out and marched forward military-strict by a pen, inky boots leaving behind his name, black and formal and serious and beautiful on crisp white paper.
  It's just a name.
  Just a name.
  His name.