I’m the sentimental type. I look back and I think and I sigh with regret or peace or sorrow. I look at my life like a play, as though I’m a character in it, instead of the narrator. Like I’m watching the scene with my nose pressed a sheet of glass that separates me from the real world.

Especially when I thought about my life since you. Eight long months I’d crushed on you. You were my first “real” crush and therefore a steady obsession for some time now. I had gone from writing sappy poems and being unable to form a coherent sentence in front of you to glancing at you in the hallway and sighing. I’ve come this far.

When I looked at you, with your dirty-blond hair, sparkly brown eyes, and crooked teeth, I didn’t suck in my breath and stare anymore, I rolled senseless thoughts around in my mind and looked away. To think that you didn’t have a clue this entire time.

Sometimes I wanted to scream it in your face, but I wouldn’t. Instead I’ll just think to myself and maybe shed a tear.

I’ve come this far.