I am not what he wanted. I am not what I thought I was: someone he could see himself craving at the break of dawn, every night just before his eyelids finally fluttered like depressed butterflies to sleep. I cannot believe I fell for him. It was such a short, quick, and miserably wonderful feeling. He had made me determined to become the person I was longing to be since a moment three summers ago. His perfection like a glossy painting, something two-dimensional that had some sort of greater beauty behind it; the thoughts that the artist claimed when creating the masterpiece. Untouchable, yet everything I wanted to trace my fingers upon. Why did I have such high expectations of this boy with his breathtaking eyes of blue ice? He would never like me, he would never even dare touch the thought of love . . . he would never even confirm my existence for as long as I sped through hallways, laughing, hating, and loving all at once. I was a little bird, he was a strong and frightening hawk, eyes souring, but never too closely. Why did he fascinate me so much? Because his emotions were well-hidden; there was something in his quietness and gentle smile that I read into deeply. Stop explaining and re-explaining yourself. You’ve already wasted so much energy on him. He will never like you, so stop trying to become his obsession while he is still your own.