You may have noticed that I didn't begin my letter with the word, "dear".
It's not because I hate you, or formalities, or cliches.
In fact, it's quite the opposite.
It's because, as much as I hate admitting,
my heart skips a beat at the thought of giving you such a title.
My heart skips a beat at the thought of giving you anything but that title.
You haven't held a magnifying glass to my chest, so I'm assuming you'd never understood
how much I really loved you.
I was the quiet kind, the one who preferred the side of the room, and not the center.
The one who kept their hair in front of their eyes, to avoid meeting your glances, as well as everyone else's.
It was hard enough to say hello to random people, let alone to you.
And, when I did say it, I found it was drowned out by the shouting, the talking, and the annoying bickering of others.
So, I stopped saying hello.
You might be asking why I chose to write to you--or, at least in my head, you are.
In my head, you know who I am, where I am, and what I'm doing.
We exchange words as good friends do, but not much more.
My love is unrequited, as friends are to be just that--friends.
And friends care about other friends, so they ask about each other.
I'll answer your question, since you're so curious, so eager to know about me.
We are friends after all, aren't we?
"Why do you write to me?" you say.
And, as in all of our conversations, I reply, "I write to you because I care about you."
You smile while saying, "Why, of course you care. It's what friends are supposed to do."
In the pinnacle of our imaginary talk, this is when I say it.
This is when I say what I've always wanted to say.
I breathe in, depressing the nervousness within. I try as best I can to swallow the lump in my throat. It pulses, it jumps, and I assume it's my heart.
I open my mouth slowly, weigh my lungs down with air, and say,
"I care for you so much more than a friend ever could. It wouldn't be enough, it wouldn't satisfy me, to be only your friend. It wouldn't satisfy me because I love you."
You stare at me in bewilderment for a half an hour though it could be 30 seconds, because I'm so nervous, I can't keep track of time.
And then, it happens.
You look at me with loving eyes, lock me into a warm hug, and treat me as more than a friend.
This is how my thinking-bubble always ends. The same scene plays in the exact same way, over and over, and it ends the same way.
It's a movie that tickets are too expensive for.
A movie that I'd never be able to see, in full color, with front row seats.
It stays in black and white, and I always sit in the back of the theater, if I do get in.
I wish it to be true. I want it to happen.
I know it can't.
But, the least I can do is write to you.
I put this into a tiny envelope, and bought a few postage stamps. The envelope and stamps taste so bitter, with the adhesive that's used to keep them sealed. It can't be as bitter as how I might feel, but it's a pretty close comparison.