The pencil tip dulled with each precious word I wrote, with each heartfelt line I angrily scribbled out. My eraser became deformed as I dragged it again and again across the paper, taking back things I couldn’t bear you to read. Little pink eraser shavings littered my paper-I blew them off, a frown creasing my forehead. There was so much that needed to be said, but only so much I could handle saying. You were going to leave if I didn’t get this right. That meant it had to be perfect. This presented a major obstacle-from the roots of my frizzy hair to the tip of my toes, red nail-polish chipped, I was anything but perfect.

The thing was, I didn’t think about these things when you tugged my hand into yours, or laughed at the way I would snort when you said something funny. I couldn’t help but smile whenever I thought of you. This is why you had to stay. I’d never been good with words, you mistook my silence for disinterest. You’re wrong. I’m more than interested; I’m intrigued, fascinated, enamored. I just can’t say it to you, without it sounding like a cheesy come-on from a 1960’s movie villain, or like I have a bad stuttering problem. This was my last chance, my final saving grace.

I touched the cursed pen to the paper for what felt like the hundredth time that chilly October night, and took a deep breath. No muse would come to my aid, I wasn’t about to pen the words of love like Shakespeare had. This was going to have to come from me, summing up all my feelings for you in just the right way-my way-the only way you’d understand. The alphabet was such a fickle mistress, giving you all the tools to say everything right, but with no lessons on how to accomplish this monstrous feat.

The number-two pencil that had started this night in pristine condition was now stumpy, with a flat lead tip, slightly pointy eraser and a few frustrated teeth marks marring its shiny yellow body. Nevertheless, it was my only weapon in this battle between my head and my heart. Gnawing on my bottom lip in a frenzied concentration, I dragged the pencil slowly across the paper, picking out exactly what would convince you. In the end, I wrote down exactly what I wanted, precisely what I needed, and specifically what made me happy. There was no room for interpretation, no need for reading between the lines. It was in lamens terms, dumbed down, clear and simple. On the paper in long, wobbly grayish letters that defied the dictatorship of the printed blue lines, were the letters Y-O-U.