The first time I saw him I had to tell myself, get a grip, he’s just another guy, a gorgeous one, but just like any other. It was the first week of class, so we were introduced, we chatted a little, and that was it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
When he was working at his desk or in a conversation with someone else, I’d walk by and cautiously glance his way, trying to absorb every glorious feature of his face in a millisecond without him noticing. Once, our eyes met and I felt a jolt of desire, fear, and anxiety surge through me as I impulsively drew back my eyes in embarrassment. In a rush of conflicting emotions I would simultaneously hope he didn’t notice me while longing that he would.
In my imagination he would suddenly recognize my interest and sweep me off my feet like in those mockingly perfect chick flicks where the guy is always so romantic and witty and charming, practically reading the girl’s mind on just what to do. But then reality sinks in with the sharp buzz of the bell, rudely reminding me that I’m at school, not on some Hollywood movie set. This is reality where infatuation always ends in devastating disappointment.
Only I spend the rest of the day dreaming about him, imagining worlds where our love might blossom. I watch each of these rosy soap bubble worlds expand at each exhale. I hold my breath in hopeful anticipation, but then I let go. They burst in silent disenchantment, fallen tear drops on an indifferent concrete world.
Each time I see myself approaching him, mustering the courage to speak my mind, to let loose that caged and pacing beast, Emotion. I peer fearfully at the beast behind those bars, afraid to recognize the shared longing in its starved eyes. Most girls also have fears. That they’re too fat, too skinny, not pretty enough, or lack the personality and confidence to warrant attractiveness. But they have one undeniable feature in their favor. That they’re girls. And I’m not.