I’m thinking about what’s going to happen one year from today. Even though God doesn’t write the future in stone, I fear his hand carved this in granite:
I’ll be even more terrified than I am now, sitting in the same bleachers, and watching the same graduation ceremony, but instead of cheering for Doug’s matriculation, I’ll be watching yours. You’ll be in your senior white dress, you walk through the arch, and if I’m lucky, I’ll spot you in the crowd and get one good hug from you before you leave me forever.
I thought I had two years to say goodbye to you. I thought that was enough time, because when I graduated you were still a sophomore, and now you’re a senior. Time, it seems, has reminded me that it hasn’t stopped ticking, because my goodbye-date with you is closer than I ever dared to fear it would ever be.
If I’m on a time limit, then so be it. If I have a year to tell you everything, a year to make you mine, then I’m going to try. I’m going to tell you about your smile that freezes my heart to the side of my chest. I’ll tell you about how I can barely form a coherent sentence when I’m talking to you. I’m going to tell you that even at a college with 20,000+ girls, I haven’t found one like you. I’ll remind you of the night I’ll never forget: of your visage that I can see more clearly than any camera could ever capture.
Your face was the picture of regret, and it made me incredibly, perfectly and incandescently happy, because it’s the only proof I have that you have ever liked me, and I burnt that image in my head, brighter than the sun even if it were sinking into Saudi Arabia’s oil reservoir. The point is this: Some part of you regretted telling me that I was just your best friend, and that’s all you could want from me.
In summary, I won’t give up, can’t. Not when I still wake up in the morning with your name running through my mind and hanging from my lips. Not when you fill my journal and title every page.
This is what I’m asking for: before you leave me forever, give me a chance. Let me show you how much I care about you, so that after two years I can finally stop thinking and writing about you and instead, actually be with you. If you say no, believe me, I’ll let you walk away. I’ll even drive you to the plane that’ll fly you 4 states south from me. Just please, before you go do me one last final favor, don’t say no.