I've never longed for someone the way I long for you.


Five days a week, you intrigue me and you terrify me. You make me feel alive. Seven days a week, I think about you. I can't even help it. I try to stay busy, but it's still not easy.

I wish we could have met sooner, when we went to the same school and possibly sat next to each other at the library. Now you've been with your boyfriend for years and it's painful to see that you love him. I want you to be happy most of all, but I keep hoping that there's something he can't offer you, that there's something about him you're fed up with, or that you just need a change. At the same time, I know leaving him would result in
questions from family and friends. You grew up together. It probably feels impossible.

I don't remember the last time I met someone like you. You're the definition of exuberant. You're full of life, happy, and you have a great sense of humour. You can light up a room with your presence and still make every single person in it feel special. I know we joke around about it, but you're also incredibly kind. Talking to you is sometimes the high point of my day. I can't imagine finding someone who would compare to you in making me feel the way I do.

I know we have something and I can't forcibly convince you of how great it could be. All I can do is talk to you, get to know you more, do little things for you, and tell you jokes once in a while. I love the way you react to my flirtations. If it was up to me, I would never deny you that feeling.

There's a world out there you're not seeing. I'd like to take you to Cambodia or Morocco. I'd like to make an elaborate dinner and watch art films with you, I'd like to go to lectures and debates with you, I'd like to probe your mind and figure out your deepest thoughts, hopes, and fears. There's so much good we can bring out in one another.

You're comfortable. So am I. You're a smart woman, though, and I know you've got a sense that, for all the fun you've had, it's not enough. I want to challenge you and invigorate you. I want to give you an everlasting happiness.

Give it a chance.


I think the best crushes are the weird ones. 

Two years ago, all of my letters here were written to one guy. I had never spoken more than a dozen words to him, all of which were "hi".

I went to private school and got home early. Two afternoons a week I walked a friend's dog and one day I walked down a different street. The timing was just right that I passed the public school kids getting off the bus at their street. First off the bus was a big group of noisy, rowdy high schoolers, jostling into each other down the steps past the bus driver. They yelled hello to me. A few steps behind them was a quiet boy, with dark hair and dark eyes and a beautiful smile. He nodded and said hello.

After that, I walked the same route every day to see the quiet boy. And every time, he would get off the bus, we would greet each other, and go our separate ways. A few times I caught him looking back at me over his shoulder. This went on for months. I daydreamed about introducing myself, and the two of us walking down the sidewalk together, talking about our lives. I wrote letters, crafted poems, and walked twice a week, without fail. 

The next year, the same kids got off the bus, but he wasn't with them. I stalked him on Facebook and discovered he had gone off to college a few states away. I walked down his street every once and a while, glancing at his house as a passed, as if he were going to materialize in the window. But after a few months I moved on, to different streets and other people. 

Last month, I was out walking my dog past his street, and I stopped to talk to a woman with a white puppy. A car pulled up to the stop sign, and I glanced over. It was the same boy. He flashed his beautiful smile and we waved at each other, as if in silent recognition of our previous relationship, and he pulled away. 

Last week, I friended him on Facebook at the prompting of a friend. He messaged me right away. We talked on and off for a few days, about random stuff, from professions to sailing to planets. 

Today, we had our first date, and it was amazing. 

Imagine the place where you live is inundated by snow and ice. It doesn’t matter if there wouldn’t be snow there, of if you’ve never even seen snow before. Just imagine cold, white, grey everywhere. Imagine the light is soft, but everything else is heavy. All you can see and feel is a suffocating cold, and a white bleakness stretching across your world. You can go outside, but it’s with difficulty and there’s nothing to see, anyway. Imagine that everyone is completely preoccupied by surviving in their own colourless, freezing existences and they don’t really talk to you. When they do it’s about snow and ice with intense focus and dullness. You want there to be life beyond the snow. You remember when there was. You don’t think the snow should be everything. You want to talk about leaves or whirling dervishes, or a particular passage from a book you read in adolescence. You want to discuss the history of pop music from the 80s and 90s, or to run without stopping for 55 minutes, or to complain about the weird noises from next door. You want to be beyond this. But you are covered and stifled by paralysing snow.


Then suddenly you meet another person. In my example I’m using the male pronoun, but you can substitute whatever best fits your situation. This person isn’t white or grey. He isn’t obsessed with the snow. He doesn’t care about the cold. He breaks through all of that. He lives on the other side of the city, and you have to dig a tunnel through the snow from your bedroom window to his bedroom window. This tunnel goes from your heart to his heart. This is what love is, to me: a protected passage way through the smothering snow and the density of other people, to someone else who is just like you; who sees the world as you do, who feels as you do, and who loves as you do.


You change all the lead 
Sleeping in my head to gold
And as the day grows dim
I hear you sing a golden hymn





Most nights, I have dinner with Loneliness. We sit across from each other, silent, each absorbed in our own thoughts.

Sometimes, I sit with Anger. She bashes her hands against the countertop, screams like the world is ending. All I can do is cover my ears and resist the urge to scream like she does.

Other nights, I sit with Depression. Those nights are the worst, as everything that I eat is tasteless and I wonder why I'm even eating at all.

But, tonight. Tonight I had dinner with You. You didn't see the loneliness, anger, and depression sitting in the seat across from me. You didn't even blink twice as you sat down and took an already taken seat.

Yet, it didn't matter. As you smiled at me, your eyes crinkling up at the corners, and introduced yourself, I hoped...really, really, really hoped... that this wasn't just a single occurence. That this night was not just another night in a long stream of bland, monotonous nights.

My dinner guests were not replaced by you as you sat down. They'll be back. They always return. But you seemed to frighten them away, if even for that single hour.

I'd love it if you joined me for dinner again.

I'm fluent in 6 languages and there is no combination of words between those languages that is capable of describing how I feel about her.

2 weeks before I turned 12 years old, a skinny little 5-foot-tall, 11-year-old blond boy with a bowl-cut walked into my life.  He was extremely awkward.  My friends all decided to pick on him.  But I know how awful it is to be bullied...I had to leave my school once because of it.  So my friends all left me for not joining in, and I guess that's how I became friends with that little bowl-cut boy.  He was extremely awkward.  But hey, I was too.  What they failed to see is that he was also very talented and kind.

That little boy turns sixteen in 6 days.  He is now 6 feet tall and his bowl cut days are long gone, but sometimes when I look at him, I still see that same little 11 year old.  We still laugh at some of the same jokes we laughed at in middle school.  We still sing stupid songs and split snacks like we did in middle school.  We still know all the people that bullied us in middle school, and still do all the same things that they bullied us over.  We have grown to be pretty close friends.  He has been my classmate, teammate, shoulder to lean on, and faithful friend for almost 5 years.  And I fall for him a little more each day, just like I did in middle school.  He doesn't have a clue.

Moving on doesn't have to mean forgetting or pretending it didn't happen.

It did happen.

But it's time for me to accept that our paths aren't meant to cross again.

And moving on doesn't mean that I can't think about you sometimes, and think about how it used to be.

But it means that those memories are in the past, not hopes for the future.

And lastly, moving on doesn't mean that a part of me won't always love you.

But it means that I can start a new chapter in my life where I'm the main character, not you.