I love you, but you’ll never know it.
Unless, of course, you read this and realize that I’m talking about you, you feel the same way, and you reach out and let me know.
You don’t know this, but I think about you every day. Literally, every day. And even though you may never feel the same, I wish our stars would align to allow me the pleasure of loving every single bit of you.
You can never love me because our worlds never intersect. In fact, the only time that we ever interact is when I make an effort to get your attention. I can only do this for so long before I lose hope of us ever being together.
I don’t know what it is about you.
We live in two different cities. I think of you so often that I often fantasize about everything working out if I just moved myself to New York. The distance makes this impossible for me. If I were to tell you how I felt, the fact that we are so far away would make it impossible to spark any sort of real relationship. Why should I be vulnerable with my feelings if there’s a chance they won’t be reciprocated – and if they are, the distance will stunt our love’s growth so what is the point of trying?
My heart flutters at the thought of you. I get goose bumps when I think of your smile.
I can’t help that with every like and heart you give me on social media I gain a foolish sense of hope.
My muscles tense at the thought that you’ll probably find someone else and my heart breaks at the thought that you probably have never thought (and will never think) of me this way. I have spent way too much time thinking of all the reasons we will never work: I’m not your type, you’re not mine; Is your family racist? Would you fight for me?; the list goes on and on.
There is just something about you.
For you, I would submit. With you, I’d grow old.
We may not agree on who to vote into office or what music we like best, but you are the only man that makes me want to put everything aside and be domestic. Those who know me know that this is so NOT me. Yet you make me want to cook you dinner every night and have all of your babies. You make me want to do whatever it is that will make you happy and I give no fucks about what anyone would have to say about it.
I often imagine myself being the Betty to your Don – only the biracial, [slightly] heavier, if-you-cheat-on-me-I-will-actually-cut-you-er version. Ridiculous, considering I hate Betty and I hate what Don does to Betty, but accurate because I would be that glamorous stay-at-home wife for you.
I’d do it because I’d want to, not because you’d ever ask or require that from me.
I remember our first conversation, strolling through the courtyards of some European castle. We talked about life, having children. Not with each other, of course, but it was apparent (in my mind, at least) that we both strongly valued marriage and family.
I remember sitting across from you as you slept on a bus trip and thinking that you were adorable. I wished you were sitting next to me so that it was I that you were leaning on and not that window.
I remember walking toward the ocean with you later, talking. Yes, friends were around and conversation was light, but as we chatted the only thing I saw was you.
I remember visiting your campus when we were all back in America, wishing I had been more sober when you asked me for my number. I didn’t even expect us to talk that night. It would have been easier for me to gage whether you wanted to keep in touch because we’re legit friends or if it were more than that. I was embarrassed that I was too drunk to correctly remember my own phone number, but relieved when you laughed and just gave me yours. When you told me to let you know whenever I came to your new city, it made my night.
I don’t know why I’m giddy like a little girl when I think of you, or why you have this effect on me. But it is true; I keep a picture of you and our friends on my phone that I took the night we left Europe because I have never seen a more perfect picture of your face.
I love you, but I’m too chicken to ever let you know.