by anonymous
I miss when your face was a meaningless sight in my field of vision as my eyes idly skimmed our history class. You never contributed anything of substance, except for that one time you said “Capitalism” to appease our teacher when he asked about what was wrong with American nationalism abroad. When rushing out of class, you were just the tall, slow moving block in my path.
Summer passed, and September came, when I dreamt about you.
Seeing you in Modern European Intellectual Thought every other day must have made you a part of my subconscious stream. It’s not like I was in love with you; you were just in my head for no reason. It’s also not like the dream was actually about you; we were both at Giant and you came in with my friends from Pittsburgh, and when we made eye contact, you rode away on a tricycle.
Maybe it wasn’t the most intuitive thing to wait eagerly for you after class on that sunny afternoon, to tell you, “You were in my dream last night!” Still, did you have to run away right after I did? The embarrassment only kicked in after I told my friends about the disappointing experience, when they explained to me that I might as well have just confessed an obsession with you that didn’t even exist. I was too ashamed to ever face you again, and decided that your sprinting away from me would be our last encounter ever.
So, when we were both kicked out of the next class and sent to stand in the hallway for not doing our reading assignment, I couldn’t bear to look you in the eye. To my surprise, you were acting as if nothing had happened. Why weren’t you freaked out? Didn’t you remember what I said last time? Why were you talking to me about enjoying the weekend instead of doing the reading, rather than driving me into a deeper pit of Humiliation Hell by following up on my spontaneous statement? I don’t think it was a lack of acknowledgement stemming from disinterest. Just through your silent forgiveness of my blunder, my spirits were lifted enough to see the clear black eyes and reserved smile of your resting face returning my gaze.
Moments later, an elderly teacher walked through the hallway path between us. I thought nothing of his presence until he remarked that “it looks like Romeo and Juliet got in trouble.” At the same time that you profusely denied his accusation, I’m certain that a wave of rosie red washed over my face as I looked anywhere but at you. He left, and so did we, but his playful quip ignited the spark of my first highschool crush.
Disregarding your existence transformed into stealing glances of half of your face every time we sat next to each other in class. It became the butterflies that fluttered in my stomach every time we locked eyes as I passed your math class. It was the fireworks that burst in my head when we walked side-by-side, wrapped in the chill of a late November night. This curious, newfound feeling was the duality of meekness and excitement, a desire to be reclusive yet bold.
If life was perfect, you’d be reading this dead letter wearing the rose-tinted glasses I viewed you through. I don’t even care anymore that it wasn’t mutual, because I’m putting this all to an end. I’m even grateful that you don’t reciprocate my feelings, so I am prepared for more important rejections and failure later in life.
Through this dead letter, I’m seeking solace in your silence.
Yours truly,
______
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