This Is The Letter I’ll Never Send You

This is me not writing about how I noticed the way you looked at me, that first night we met. How I saw it even through the veil of Molly that distorted your expression. Or how I avoided the eye contact you tried to make, because I didn’t want to waste our time on something so pointless.

This is me not writing about how I added you on Facebook like you wanted me to, even though I knew better of it. Or how I messaged you the next day to see you, even though I knew it was a bad idea.

This is me not writing about how I couldn’t look away from you, because you looked like something out of a dream. Or how I wanted the crowds to disappear, leaving the two of us alone.

This is me not writing about how awkward it felt while you tried to get my attention in front of your friend, long after you already had it. Or how I didn’t want it to stop, even with your friend watching.

This is me not writing about how you messaged me to come over to yours while your friend was oblivious to your look. Or how excited I was to be your little secret.

This is me not writing about how we talked about nothing for hours. Or how you liked my stories and joked I’d better not write about you.

This is me not writing about the night we spent together, or the morning we spent after. Or how weird it was hearing you mention me to your mum back home, when you stepped out to call her.

This is me not writing about how you called me a cab and told me you’d see me soon. This is me not writing about how you kissed me goodbye. Or how you messaged me to make sure I got home, and then continued to message me all day.

This is me not writing about how much I treasured that brief moment in time that was just ours. This is me not writing about how I wish it could have been longer.

This is me not writing about you. And since I didn’t write this, this is me hoping you never read this.

Never yours.