There’s something romantic about an unmade bed, ruffled from the previous evening, blankets wrapped up in each other, like we were the night before.

There’s something romantic about an unmade bed, 
ruffled from the previous evening, 
blankets wrapped up in each other, 
like we were the night before.

I wonder, actually no. I know that if I hadn’t met you the way I did, if instead, I saw you sitting across this coffee house, I would have to help myself from making too much awkward eye contact. I would have to refrain from embarrassing myself. I’d be too nervous to get up and have to walk past you that I would probably take the long way around. 
I would think you so interesting and adorable, but I know I’d be too shy to say ‘hi’ to you.

Maybe it’s better things happened the way they did.  

A New Chapter.

Chapters have changed so quickly for me lately. Whoever has been writing my story so far must have wanted me to rush through the past year. He is eager to skip me ahead to the good part of my book, the forever part. 

Driving along on a foggy day, I look to my left and I see him.

And I think to myself, “this is how it should be.” Amidst all the dreary low hanging clouds and misty rain coating the windshield, there is a beam of light just to my left. He is a constant, a beacon, a driving force that cuts through this fog. And I’m glad to call him mine.

I would do just about anything for your affections. 

But instead, I try to act nonchalant, like I don’t really care. And inside, what you don’t know, is that you’re killing me.  

I act like I don’t still love you. I lie to you and myself, but it still boils to the surface. It’s not going away anytime soon, I fear. 

So you’ll have to deal with my hidden feelings. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to handle. 

Turns out that wasn’t too big of a mistake after all. But we are back to square one of annoyingly awkward friendship.

That, quite possibly, could have been the biggest mistake of my life. 

I’m not over you. 

That is so very clear to me. 

I want you so bad. 

But you’re the last thing I can have. 

This is killing me. 

You are killing me. 

The days I spent with you were so perfect, I just wish they meant  something to you too…

You want to know why?

Why am I so infatuated by you, you wonder? What is it exactly about you that has so effortlessly put a hold on my heart? You have charmed me somehow, without even realizing it. 


Your smile is so warm and welcoming; your eyes are a comfort. 

For some reason, you can always make me laugh. Your wit is predicable but I still love it. 

Perhaps the best part about you is you remind me of home. You are as laid back and easy as a Sunday morning, and I admire that. 

You are so easy to talk to. I find myself wanting to tell you everything, and you always have something to say. 

Physically, we are very compatible as we have proven on multiple occasions. 

You bring out some great writing. One day, I might let you read my pieces about you. 

You are comfortable, comfortable to be with both physically and emotionally. For example, you are the most comfortable person I have shared a bed with. I usually can’t stand to spoon or cuddle for very long, but when I’m with you I wake up in your arms and I love it. 

You are smart. You have a huge amount of common sense, which means a lot to me in a guy. It’s very hard to find someone, especially at UVA, with the ability to fix something and drive well. You are the last of a dying breed.

My parents would love you. Just saying. You and my dad would hit it off perfectly, minus your truck, the two of you are strikingly similar. 

You genuinely like and appreciate my cooking.


Those are just the things that come to me off the top of my head. I’m sure there are many more reasons that explain why you’ve got this strange hold on me. Despite all the drama, and misunderstandings, and complications we have put ourselves through I still find myself compelled, or drawn rather, to you and it sucks because you don’t want me in the way that I want you.

That’s the worst part about all of this. You want someone like me, but somehow, the bridge has been burned and that makes me miserable.

And what’s worse is that you wanted me at one point. Remember back in the beginning, after our second date? You would tell me that you couldn’t wait for me to get back into town. That week was the longest week of my life, just impatiently waiting to kiss you again. 

Knowing that you exist is torture to me. Can’t you see this?