You have no idea how much I want to talk to you. How much I want to write out a text and actually follow through with sending it, so that we can have a long, elaborate conversation about our lives.

You have no idea how much I want to see you. How much I want to invite you over and hang out with you one-on-one, so we can laugh and talk and catch up on what’s been happening since we’ve last since each other.

You have no idea how much I want to flirt with you. How much I want to hold your hand and play fight with you and pour you a drink that will get the both of us tipsy enough to be honest about our feelings.

You have no idea how much I want to kiss you. How much I want to run my fingers through your hair and pull your head closer to mine so we can lock lips.

You have no idea how much I want to sleep with you. How much I want to feel your chest pressed against mine and your tongue against my skin.

You have no idea how much I want to date you. How much I want to wake up next to you every morning and eat breakfast across from you in our shared apartment.

You have no idea what you mean to me. You have no idea how much I think about you, how many times I have thought about reaching out to you and then forced myself to rethink things.

You have no idea how many dreams I’ve had about you. How many times I’ve looked through your social media. How many stories I’ve told about you to my friends.

You have no idea how close I have gotten to telling you the truth.

But you still have no idea how much I like you, because I’m worried that you don’t feel the same. I’m worried that I’ll be brave and let my emotions loose, and then you’ll tell me that you’re still not looking for a relationship or that you’re already seeing someone else. I’m worried that you’ll reject me and break my heart all over again.

You have no idea how much I miss you, because I like it better this way. I don’t want you to know how hard it is for me to ignore the impulse to text you. I don’t want you to know that your name leaves my lips every time I get drunk. I don’t want you to know how much power you hold over me.

I would rather have you keep thinking that I’m over you, that we’re done, that there’s nothing left for me to say. I would rather have you believe the same lie that I keep trying to tell myself.

You have no idea how much I want to make you mine — and you probably never will — because I’m not ready to tell you, and I don’t think I ever will be.