Dear Train (Abi and I have decided that transportation systems are perfect nicknames for boys),
I hate you. And I like you. And depending on the way you look at it, I might even love you.
You’re irritating as hell and obnoxious and conceited and sometimes rude and too flirty and you’re as moody as a woman. You are extremely cute and on some days sexy and quirky and artistic and talented and smart and interesting and creative and hilarious. I love the way you look when you’re telling me a story or an idea, how animated your eyes get. I love your weird way of flirting, the movie references and the characters you put on. I love your taste in music. I love your eyebrows. I love when you hold my hand, even if it’s only because you have to for the musical. I love when you sit next to me and give me one of your earphones, not asking if I want to listen (it’s kind of a given that I would). I love how you talk with your hands.
I hate how, if you read this, you would run for the hills.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say you don’t give two shits about me, but you only give one shit, whereas I give four.
Because I like the boys who aren’t really into me. It has to do with that damn Scale of Value, which I would gladly explain to you should you ask. And maybe you are into me a little, but I will never know for sure because I am NEVER going to ask you. At least, not anytime soon. Maybe because every time you do something that makes me think there’s a slight speck of possibility of you liking me…you do the same thing to that two-faced freshman. And that annoying blonde. And whatever girl happens to be standing by.
You can’t deny that there’s SOMETHING there. Even if someone chooses to ignore it, namely you.
That is all.