Almost six and a half years ago, I spotted you from across a very large room and thought, Oh dear, I'm in trouble again. As your eyes flicked past me, I demanded from the universe a place in your world and, while I eventually found one, I'm still not sure where that place was.
I remember sitting behind you in class. You smelled so good, and I thought you were brilliant. You were (and are) funny, too. You once made me laugh so hard I peed my pants, but I never told you that. Few things elated me more than making you laugh, too.
You should know it was always you. I went through four years of college and had my fair share of momentary obsessions, as well as serious relationships. The whole time, I ran into you often, and tried to forget the way you made me feel.
When I was a teenager, I let the boy I liked copy my homework; at the time, my dignity and self-respect never came into question, and all that mattered was that he needed something from me. I would do the same for you even now, a fact that can't be healthy, but neither is the dulled passion that is borne of compromise. In any case, you would never need to copy from my homework, and that’s just one thing that’s so great about you.
But over and over again, I watched you fall in love with other girls, some of whom you could have, and some you couldn't. I'm not sure which made me feel worse, but I always wanted to tell you how good I'd be to you if you would just let me.
I last saw you three summers ago, that time I ran into you on the bus. I said, “Maybe I'll see you around” instead of, “We should hang out.” I knew that the latter would be pointless, but the former may happen accidentally, with good fortune.
So why am I still thinking about you, even now?
The Other Synesthete