It scares me how much I like you.
I like you so much. I want to text you and tell you “I can’t stop thinking about you,” but I won’t. I know you would smile. I know that you would want to know that I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know you’d probably tell me how happy that made you or that you couldn’t stop thinking about me either. But I won’t send it.
You circuitously asked me to be your girlfriend—put the “I’m looking for a relationship” feeler out. I said I wasn’t looking for one, that we were both too young. You basically asked me if I wanted to be your girlfriend; I basically said no. Here’s the kicker: I want to be your girlfriend. I know that you want me to be your girlfriend. I know that you’re confused about the fact that I said no because I really like you and when were together I tell you how much I like you and how cute you are and how good you smell. It’s just so hard not to say it, let the words involuntarily leak out of my runny-faucet mouth, whenever I look at you. Whenever you hold my hand, finger tips brushing against my knuckles as you inch your palm into mine. I just want to tell you that I’m so happy. Right in this moment, I’m happy. So I do. I say that. And I know that you know that I really mean it. But I won’t be your girlfriend.
I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of how cute you are and how good you smell and how smart you are. I’m afraid of how nice you are to me and how you run your finger along the top of my jeans and how you smile with your whole mouth, whole face, whole body. I’m afraid of liking you so much. So I keep you over there, and I’ll stay over here. I’ll enjoy you from my weird, close distance.
I think you might be the best person I’ve ever met. I think you might be the smartest, the funniest, the sexiest, the dorkiest, and the most genuine. But I won’t tell you. I can’t tell you. Because then you’d know, and then you could do something to fuck it up.