I wish I could write you one of those romantic love letters. You know the type: written in girly cursive on expensive stationary with the little French phrases mixed in that was actually mailed to your house. You would probably be a little more than creeped out, though. You don’t know that I love you or that every single little thing that you do makes me love you more.
Actually, scratch that. I don’t know if I’m in love with you. I really hope I’m not, because that would be pretty pathetic and cliche considering you’re my best friend’s older brother and are college bound at the end of the month, but I don’t know of another way to describe how I feel. God, I really hope I don’t love you.
Loving you would just be pointless. You’re going away for a college that’s six hours away in little more than four weeks, and I strongly doubt that you’ll ever think of me again. Me, the ‘pretty cute’, as you had so elegantly put it, little freshman girl who’s always at your house watching TV with your sister. I’m always eating your food, sitting on your couch, watching your movies. And on top of that, I always make you give me a ride home which is all the way across town, by the way. God, I must be such a nuisance. But some part of me hopes, wishes, that you think a little more of me. Part of me hopes that you think of me as a peer and wishes that you go over our conversations in your head as much as I do. Part of me wishes that you have at least once in your life thought of me in your spare time. But most of me doubts that you would.
But when I’m with you in your car, nothing else matters. All my doubt goes away and I don’t even think about it anymore because all I can think is “Oh God, he’s gorgeous. Oh my God.” And what really sends me over the edge is when you ask me about my love life. It takes every ounce of self control I have to not scream that I like you so incredibly much. So, instead I tell you that it’s complicated (which it usually is, not lying here) and I explain something about me and Michael and how infuriating he is (again, not lying) and then I mentally kick myself for it because I want you to think that I’m completely into you, even though I do want to keep it a secret. Why are these things so complicated? I blame you for asking me about my love life in the first place. It makes me think that you’re actually interested and then when you tell me about YOUR love life drama, I want to bite off my tongue because I know you’re not talking about me even though you always keep the girl you’re talking about a secret.
…. Maybe you were talking about me.
No, no, no, no, no. It doesn’t matter. You’re going away for college and I’m busy being used by the guy I’m casually dating. This can’t happen. I can never write you a romantic love letter. Hell, I shouldn’t even be writing this.
This is the letter I’ll never send, and I’m writing it for you, Liam, because ever since February when you told me you thought I was cute I could never get you out of my head. This is your fault.
Love (actually, not love, I just don’t know any other way to end a letter),
Jordan, the girl who is not in love with you.