You

Maybe you have seen me, though I am certain you don’t know who I am. Just another face in the crowd, familiar to you only if you have paid me any mind before. No, you do not know me and yet, I am acutely aware of you.

If I see the same shade of blue, I will turn and expect it to be you. I am always relieved when it is someone else. You come upon me like a spider; I somehow sense you are near and my eyes find themselves drawn towards you. I cast them down and hope that you don’t see me. Never am I more focused on the task at hand than when you are around, and yet simultaneously, paradoxically, I cannot focus on anything else but how close you are.

You affect me in a way I don’t fully understand. My heart races, my hands shake and I feel the queasiness in my stomach almost instantly. I silently plead that I will be invisible to you. I am afraid of you and fascinated by you in equal measures. A product of circumstance, nothing more. I see you so often these days, and maybe I think about you because I see you. Then again, maybe I see you because I think about you. Like the chicken and the egg, I can’t quite figure it out.

I have seen you only from a distance, and the few close encounters have left me with a roiling terror twisting in my gut, so intense that I feel as though I might be sick. Irrational fears cloud my head and I wish desperately that I was still in that happy state of ignorance.

You are pretty when you smile. I probably shouldn’t say that, but it struck me back then, and it’s something I seem to be unable to forget. The stupid thing is, I like your style. Sometimes foolish thoughts like that pop into my head, and I feel strangely guilty. Like having admiration for you is pathetic, and weird. I’ve been told we have things in common. Maybe in another life, in different circumstances, you and I would have been friends. But then, maybe I shouldn’t say that either.

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