TO THE WONDERFUL BOY

Here I am waiting again. 

The ever-so-ordinary Palma Hall is buzzing with flocks of students pacing back and forth, crossing halls echoing with laughter and senseless chatter. Sunlight enters the windows, casting a radiant glow on the building's old interior. I sit cozily on my spot near the window waiting for two people—Sam and you. 

Sometimes, I can't help but feel so stupid. Feel so stupid for believing. Feel so stupid for trusting in that little thing called serendipity. Feel so stupid for relying on fate and what was written on the stars. Sometimes I feel so illogical for wanting to be friends with someone who's never gonna come, with someone who's never going to read every letter, every entry, every word in this minuscule blog. Someone who's never going to know my story. Someone who's never going to know how I waited this long.

Someone who's never going realize that sometimes, I DO want to be more than friends.

Serendipity is such a bitch. It plants you in a moment that will change your life forever, yet after it does it will never give you room to grow. It will trap you. It will cage you in a flux of thoughts, anxieties and worries and will keep you wondering if there is another chance, if it can give you another moment that might finally lead to that one thing you've been waiting for. 

All that I've ever wanted was for those love songs and paperback novels to make sense. 

Is that bad? Is that too much to ask? 

Quickly, I wipe the tears forming on the corners of my eyes. I punch my gut mentally, telling myself to stay strong and not cry about these petty matters. I look outside and find myself drowning in a sea of thoughts—thoughts of you, thoughts of me and thoughts about what I would write tonight. Once again, the Palma Hall is muted and there is only me in my world, in my head, drifting as waves crash into my struggling form and push me down, down, into the deep. I surface and inhale what little oxygen enters my lungs, but something is dragging me to the bottom. Something is forcing me to lose it, to stop holding on. 

Something is telling me to give you up. 

I stand up, slowly walking, eyes fixed on a single point straight ahead. Palma Hall transforms into an ordered chaos of black and white, and my heart sinks on the granite floors and shatters. 

Then he walks to me, his phone in his hand and waves. He waves and says hello, and everything seems to be okay. His black-brown eyes assures me everything will be okay. 

Then he sees the tears. He sees it and his pace quickens. He slides his phone into his pocket, and the expression on his face turns grim. The second hand reaches twelve, and I fall into his arms. I fall into his arms, and I know I am saved.

I know I am safe. 

I know that he is here. 

I know he will understand. 

I look up, and he locks his gaze with mine. Without the need for words, he asks me what was wrong. And I tell him that I'm tired. I tell him that I can't put up with this fantasy anymore. 

I tell him the truth. 

"He's never gonna come."