You.

I do not like writing about you. I don’t like thinking about you, or dreaming about you, or hoping that maybe, you think about me too. I’m such an insignificant speck in your brilliant life, and I know this. And I know that we’re not yet friends, but we’re more than acquaintances, but I wish you would acknowledge me as something more, because I think of you as something more. I do not love you the way a lover would, but I admire you more than I’m supposed to. And yet, as is the way with me, I cannot stop. I cannot stop thinking about you. I cannot stop hoping that maybe I’ll see you again (and in a world as small as the one we live in, maybe we will). I can’t stop thinking that there’s a reason why we became aware of each other’s existence, and why I told you things I would normally reserve to my friends.

I do not love. I don’t. Really.

I’ll say this over and over again, because I believe it, with all my heart.

But – and I know this is true – I want to see you again.

Every day.