Another one shot piece of a man who wrote a letter to someone from his past. He describes how they met and seeks to find the answers to all his questions. Please review if you have read.
We met when we were younger. Remember? It was one afternoon in the spring. You walked into my class. You sat in the back, in the very last seat. Third row from the left. I remember you.
Why do I think of you? Why do I remember you? We never spoke. I don't think I ever saw your face clearly. What I know of you is a composite of side glances and stolen looks. But I noticed you nonetheless. What is it about you? I can't answer that. Maybe I dreamed too much. Perhaps I imagined too many visions of you, smiling at me. Looking at me. Talking to me.
I don't know you. Who are you? Long black hair. Shorter than me. You were always in jeans. I overheard your conversation once. You spoke to Veronica. I don't remember what you said to her, I only suspect that you meant to speak to me. And I kept my head down. I know you know me. Why didn't you? Why couldn't you call me? I wanted to know more than just your name. I wanted many things. Being able to look at you for one. Without having to hide the act.
You've fooled me. You made me believe that you know me. You waved to me, only to walk past me. I would never have guessed that one day I would have been a victim to an old, tired clichÃ©. And you've never once thought about it again, I'm sure. Do you know what it feels like to think yourself an idiot? To hope against reality: to wish for a pretty girl to wave to me, and have it be for me?
What do I feel for you? I don't love you. I only think of you, and think of you I do frequently. What do you mean to me? I shouldn't be made to answer that, because I know the reverse is hurtful. What do I mean to you? Probably not that much.
Dear Jane. Dear, dear Jane. Will you, when you read this, bring me to mind? Will you remember that once, a long time ago, you met a boy who never said a word to you? Who never attempted to? Who sees you through rose-tinted glasses? You could do no wrong.
Will you, dear Jane, recognize me from my writing? Will you think of that one day, in the spring, when you walked into my class-at the far end of the hallway, on the second floor? Will you scan your memory-remembering the faces looking at you, wondering who you were, and why you were there? Will you?
Dear Jane. I'm sorry. It's my fault we never met at all.