Have you read a love story before? Ours has a woman (me) acting like a girl and a man too old for her (you), and the comedic relief who’s a real jerk (him). May I clarify that I didn’t agree to sign a contract for a teenage romcom we’re too old play? Even Julia Roberts got tired of playing these pretentious ladies, where they had to reach a breaking point to realize how far they’ve gone to their dismay.

If there is love, there is only for one. He (you) dares to say I’ve lead him (you) on, but I was staring at my phone for (his) your call. Yes, I am young and naive with little to no experience, Juliet would have never forgiven if Romeo took advantage of her in her family’s carriage. But unlike Shakespeare I am careless with my diary entries, driven by these alcoholic tendencies with a friend who is as delusional as me.

When I look at you (him), I see radiant carnations, and with him (you) I only grow yellow roses, which I see as clear as day, but he (you) remain desperately trying to paint their petals red. Doesn’t he (you) know by now, I only pick the flowers I can’t have?

Drawn by your (his) silhouette I anticipate a well rested night, dreams are my haven when reality doesn’t echo the script from Nicholas Spark’s debut. I play Éponine in the golden district as I cry to my car counting the dewdrops gleaming. The grass blades are sharp, your (his) eyes are full of stars, can I be the moon to your (his) radiant heart? Your (his) eyes are dark as night, yet I seem to illuminate them with my curiosity and determination to study every piece of you (him), even your (his) favorite sports team.

Maybe I misunderstand all of your (his) affection, maybe I am not cut out for playing your (his) lead. His (your) side character is a minor part of my story, cannot feed to his (your) misconception of us that will never be. What else can I do than what I am doing right now? Your friends will say I am clown for writing these pieces of my life. I’ll give them one point right, I don’t have the spunk to confess to you (him) before leaving this town.

Neither of your interests align with mine, and I will not quit my dreams to become a trophy wife. Still there’s a difference between you (him) and him (you), because when you (he) bid(s) your (his) goodbye I won’t be afraid that you’ll (he’ll) reach for a kiss. You’ll (he’ll) tell a joke to prevent my tears from running away, and leave me chocolates to make sure I’m okay. Hope you (he) keep(s) in touch even when both our hearts break, or simply just live your (his) life in your (his) little eccentric way, that puzzles my judgement when I put our friendship at a stake.

Regardless of it all, may I write these fantasies? The one where I am your (his) princess, and I shout «I love you!» fearing this might be the last time I see you (him). In the crowded room, my new hope is this, that all this time you (he) knew exactly I longed for your (his) kiss.