The first time I noticed you, I was in a little bit of a fix. You had this really cute expression, and when I randomly mentioned my problem, you went to all that trouble to help.
I didn’t think much of it, and it wasn’t like I knew you, so I just got on with my life. Later, we met formally, working together, and I found myself drawn to you more and more.
But I knew there wasn’t a chance. Whatever hope I held on to was tempered with this knowledge that came out of nowhere.
It was painful, but I was content with sneaking glances whenever I could. I’m pretty sure you didn’t realize anything, and I didn’t tell anyone. That was a can of worms I didn’t want to open.
The confirmation came as a sort of relief, that I’d trusted my instincts, and I tried to let go, with little success. Mainly, I continued to hide, fighting the urge to run away in the other direction every time I saw you, while at the same time wanting to say more than hi.
A long time later, I thought I’d gotten over you, but then seeing the two of you together, you with that happy smile, hand in his, I wanted to die. Maybe I did, a little, inside. It didn’t propel me into depression or anything, oh no, I don’t do that, but it wasn’t something I wanted to experience again.
Thankfully, I never saw the both of you together after that.
And now, much later, you’re still with him, still going strong. And I’m still here alone, pining, waiting for someone else to come along and sweep me off my feet.
There’s a whole world out there.
