I see her walk around all day. I see her walk from class to class, I see her walk to school, from school, even to the mall. But even though I see her, I’ve never had the courage to actually talk to her. Many people say we would look great together. She’s the leader of the cheerleading squad, I’m the leader of the football team, it’s like we were made for each other, but that’s the problem. We’re too perfect for each other, so perfect, in fact, that we can’t associate with one another for fear of us becoming too close.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

That is probably as far from the truth as I can get. The real reason—and I hate to admit this—is that I am too shy. But that idea has always been absurd, and as much as I wanted to banish it from my mind, I just couldn’t. It floated around in my subconscious in a never-ending cycle of torment. It tugged at me when I looked at her, and when she would look at me, I would freeze, not moving an inch. Then she would look away, and so would I.

Then I go home and think about her, saying to myself that the next time I see her I will go and talk with her. And who knows, maybe even ask her out. But when the time comes for me to talk to her, the same thing happens, over and over and over again. Nothing changed, not in the four years I’ve known her.

She came to my school when we were both freshman. Ever since then we have maintained a perfect dance where nobody confronts nobody, like a motionless push and pull cycle. Everyone says that she likes me, and I assume that everyone says I like her to her. But still, no one moves. Perhaps she’s waiting for me to take the first step toward her, and I would if I could, but it seems physically impossible. I wish she would just come talk to me, and with graduation approaching fast, the idea seemed less and less plausible. But nevertheless, I wouldn’t lose hop in her, I wouldn’t lose hope in Kenzie.

Even her name dripped of love. It was such a beautiful name that went along with her beautiful figure. She was like an angel personified, with her golden hair that fell in locks down her shoulders and cascaded down her back. Her golden hair matched her golden brown skin that looked as if she had been kissed by the sun, marking her as one of his own. Her green eyes had many layers to them, green standing in the front, but hints of blue and violet fought to make an appearance.

Kenzie—the woman I loved—was what made me who I was, a single stranger with an ever increasing tie to a beautiful woman who must’ve been an angel. No, not an angel.

My angel.