My childish obsession with love is a haze that has engulfed my brain ever since I was a small girl. It clouds my vision and constantly makes me think that every next person I meet is my soulmate. From time to time, it causes strain in friendships as I believe that every nice gesture is a silent scream of passion. It has become a major factor in my life as I push everyone away because in some way I have made up a new reality in my head that is far from what is actually going on. My fantasy expectations are elevated so loftily that I’m often disappointed no matter how great something is.

I use the term “unrequited love” to explain small crushes that never evolve into anything else. Even if I never communicate my feelings and the imaginary relationship only lasts a day or so, I explain the tragedy as the stars not allowing us to be together.

My heart has never been broken. No, my heart has never been fully broken. I fall in small spurts of love all the time. Usually, someone will do something small and a feeling fills my chest. My heart is warm, the palpitations present but pleasant. It feels like all the gross, gutty parts of my innards are glowing and magnificently reflecting photons of light underneath my skin. I feel at home in my body.

I’m thinking about all of this as I am walking downtown, making eye contact with every stranger as we pass, smiling softly to see if there is any spark we might be able to kindle. Some of them are attractive, but I see attractiveness as something very different than most people. If I can’t see it, I’ll make it up. Conversations are rarely necessary for my constant mental love affairs with strangers. My fingertips nervously play with the metal binding of my notebook. The notebook.

The red notebook was 50 cents at a garage sale and has yellow paper from decades before. There are a few notes scribbled in the first pages and dates in the corners ranging from the early seventies. The person before must’ve been pretty bad at chemistry, because even I, a sophomore in high school, can see that the chemical equations are far from accurate. I began this notebook last year, vowing to record all of the times I felt like I was in love. Not including the first few pages, I am on page 16 of the 90 page notebook. There is a table of contents at the beginning with the name of said subject and the level on a 1-10 scale of how in love with them I was at the time. A full front is dedicated to the real heart wrenching people, a half to those almost as important, and a third to semi-important. No names, such as strangers or food deliverers can fit any number on a single page.

I date the upper right hand corner and then proceed to jot down the name and age of my subject as well as other pertinent information I deem vital to my pursuits. This usually includes height, averaged weight, hair color, eye color, voice pitch, choice of vocabulary, etc. If I’m feeling particularly artsy, I’ll sketch a diagram of the person. Those usually turn out pretty badly and I end up violently scribbling the page until there is no trace of it left.

The air is brisk and quietly connects all of the strangers downtown in a shaky unison of shivers and chattering teeth. I walk into the coffee store on the corner of Elmsburrough, the busiest street. Warm smells of cocoa and sugar greet me at the door and motion me in with welcoming hands, prying at the layers I’m bundled up in. Orion’s Cup is the father of all the small joints that the strip has to offer. Like the constellation, everyone knows it and disregards the other shops in town like the other stars in the sky. It has three other levels, separate from the main floor that you purchase your drink in. The basement is the music hub of the city. Wooden boxes of vinyl line the stone walls of the basement and rest on the floor, waiting to be filed through. Chairs and blankets fill the rest of the room, facing a stone step up that levels out to a small stage. Lousy speakers clutter the expanse of the stage and a few lonely mic stands sit in the corner. It’s usually dark down there and there are a few stories of some metal heads blowing out a speaker while the stoners play with the spider webs hanging from the ceiling.

The floor above the main is a small bookstore. Shelves are set up in an intricate maze, and the only way out is to wander through shelves until you find your exit. It’s supposed to make people look at things they never thought they would. You have to search through shelves of science or philosophy to leave. It’s a pretty brilliant idea.

The final upper level of Orion’s Cup is a silent reading room. Light cascades in gentle blankets from the windows that are on every wall and overlook the rest of downtown. Random couches are placed at absurd angles and lack order, allowing people to read while also respecting the personal space of others. This is my favorite place in the world.

I claim a couch that is pushed up against a window and requires me to climb over its arm to sit. My legs folded into a pretzel like formation, I grab a book from my messenger bag and begin reading. No one else is up here with me for a few minutes until I hear angry footsteps climbing up the narrow staircase across the room. Who would be so rude as to completely disregard the focus of others up here?

Floods of crimson flow underneath my skin in crashing waves when we meet eyes. His eyes are stormily dark, a brown like bitter coffee without cream. Skin like melted milk chocolate, the landscape of his body is smooth and dotted here and there with light freckles. He is the violent kind of quiet, one softened by harsh events. Even from a distance, as we lock eyes, I can see strife swimming in his pupils.

How long has it been?

He nods his head slightly and I give a faint smile, which usually acknowledges the exchange but dismisses any further encounters. I begin to read again and I feel his movements radiate through the room. The boy sits on a couch in front of me and one to the right. It is a massive, pink velvet one with various stains scattered on the fabric. He looks like a king sitting on a throne of someone else’s gross past and odd taste in furniture. We catch each other’s glances once again and he smirks at me, shaking his head slightly and looking at the book on his lap. The corner of his mouth creeps out and creates a few lines on his cheek. When he shook his head, the absence of hair made it all the more alluring and noticeable. I exchange my book for the red notebook.

Before I know it, I am creating a profile for him. I leave most of the basic information slots blank and start to sketch him, focusing on the lines his skin folded to create. I draw the freckles on his hairline and the creases under his eyes. This one, for whatever reason, seems like a tolerable one. I don’t scribble it out. Instead, I add detail after detail. The small curls of hair beginning to sprout on the top of his head. Faint muscles that peek out from underneath his raggedy white shirt. The veins on his hands that run all the way up until they disappear into the fabric.

“You’re a terrible artist,” a voice in my ear causes me to jerk forward and fling the notebook to the other side of the couch. It’s smoothness was unsettling due to its surprise appearance but far from intolerable.

I try to formulate a response, but all that comes out is choppy breaths and stuttering. He raises his eyebrows in amusement and flings himself onto the couch where I was once sitting before my spasm. After a few second, I give up and start laughing.

“Sorry,” I reply, looking outside and trying to avoid how embarrassing this whole situation is.

“Don’t apologize. I have girls drooling at my feet, it’s not a surprise that one of them would want to keep a log of me,” he sarcastically says.

“My suitors just keep a safe distance and take photos for their garage collages,” I reply, matching the sarcastic tone of the conversations. We have a seed of a conversation, I need to water it until it grows. Maybe this time it’ll be a flower and not a weed that people just pull out.

We sit in silence for a minute and look over the city. It is a peaceful silence, not one I immediately want to fill with useless talk about things no one really cares about. His breathing is methodical and I time my intake of oxygen with his. A bird in the sky soars easily, gulping in the air as it fluently circles the pedestrians. I can hear it’s wings fluttering. I look over and the boy is flipping through the red notebook.

He deflects my movements to retrieve it with a steady forearm and not even a casual glance my way. I give up and lean on my knees dangerously close to him, watching as he goes through each of the sixteen pages. His arm is still up and is pressing against my stomach slightly, our skins sharing warmth.

“Either you’re a serial killer who describes your victims in a weirdly detailed script, or you have an alternative explanation?”

I don’t want to move. I want his arm on my stomach and his voice near me. My notebook is in his hands and it really does look good in them.

“If I tell you what it is, will you give it back and go on your merry way?” I reason.

The boy pouts his lips and outreaches his pinky, entangling it with mine. I return to my normal sitting position, taking a deep breath before explaining what purpose the red notebook serves.

“It’s a love journal? Okay, I get that. Give me a pen please,” he returned after my hasty explanation.

I hand him mine, confused at the turn of events. He takes it and turns away from me, his tongue tucked in between his lips. A few minutes go by and I realize that I haven’t stopped staring at him. No one has ever touched the notebook. My notebook. No one even knows what it is.

Suddenly, he closes it and jumps up. He drops the notebook on the couch next to me and leans over the top of the couch, inches from my face. No words are exchanged. We just stare. Then, he walks over to the stairs and leaves.

I grab my things and slowly collect myself. As I walk to leave, I look at the book left on the pink coach.

How To Love: A Self-Help Workbook Including Exercises!

I laugh, replace it, and continue my walk out. The notebook is in my hand and I open it up to see what he did to it. The first page is a continuation of what I already began. His information is filled in with messy cursive.

Name/Age: Lucas, 16.
Height/Weight: 5’9’’, 150 lbs.
Hair/Eye colors: Brown Hair, brown eyes.
Voice type: deep
Vocabulary choice: exquisite.

I flip the page and almost drop my notebook. Sitting down on the the stairs, I feel my chest clench. There, on the decaying, wide-ruled page is a portrait of me. Me. The one who pays attention to everybody but never thinks anyone ever pays attention to me. Beauty came from his hand and a black ballpoint pen. Such beauty I could never see in the mirror. He captured my every detail down to the curve of my eyelashes and smile that always is dormant on my lips. There is a caption at the bottom of the page.

“You fall in love easily with your surroundings and the people in it. We need more people like you, less like me. People willing to love. Never forget that you need to love yourself before anyone else.”