This is about a year and a half old. It is one of the few things I look back on and still smile. I’ve always wished that someone would write something like this about me…call me a hopeless romantic? xp
She is gorgeous.
That’s all I can think about as I sit here in Calculus B, attempting to derive a multi-variable limit from a three-dimensional plane. Or that’s what I should be doing. Instead I am deriving poetry from the perfect shape of her cheek. The tone of her voice. The wave of her hair. My notebook is covered with little hearts, the classic sign of infatuation. And as much as I would like to focus on these numbers and pass the next test, I have a sneaking suspicion that the hormones pumping through my brain have something else in mind.
I should tell her.
That’s what goes through my head as I pause from doodling to take a long, love-struck glance at her. It isn’t as if I haven’t thought about it before. No, I’ve played the words over and over in my head, finding the exact combination that could even begin to describe the fluttering in my chest that seems to struggle on for hours after she’s said goodbye. It’s not as if the passion isn’t there. The desire that lingers in the back of my mind should be enough motivation to scream from the hilltops.
But I hesitate.
I don’t…no, can’t jump into things. I don’t want this to be a wasted opportunity, someone I decided to like for the sake of liking someone. I want this to be real. Tangible. Which I know it can never be. The though of distance, that I know I will be leaving soon, binds my emotions. A sturdy lock on the gates that I desperately wish to invite her into. I want to smooth that hair, and hold her hands, and meld together until neither of us are aware that the rest of the world still exists.
By the time I regain my logic, she is gone, floating out the door. Eyes gleaming. Full of that contagious joy that spreads to every corner of the room. And here I am, hesitant once again, with the false hope that tomorrow, maybe, I’ll tell her she’s gorgeous.