Every morning, right around 7:10 but sometimes as late as 7:15, she walks up the staircase beside the seal, turns left, and walks down the second-floor hall toward her classroom. She always carries a purse on her shoulder, a lunchbag and usually also several papers in her hand.

As she gets closer to where I sit against the wall, my headphones on, my hands start to sweat. A million thoughts start to stampede like wildebeests through my mind. All the things I could say to her. You look beautiful today. I love your necklace. You always dress so well. I saw someone on TV yesterday who made me think of you. I wrote another poem for you last night. Would you go out to dinner with me sometime? I love you. Oh God, I love you.

But when she passes, when she’s actually close enough for me to speak to, she barely looks in my direction at all – it’s almost as if she were avoiding my gaze completely – and all I can choke out is, “Good morning, miss.”

Her nod is annoyed, and then she’s gone.