• The bell rings, ending concert band with the freshies and the a**-kissing sophomores, finally ending the bane of my school day (I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here, I’m a junior now, I shouldn’t be here), and I make a run for it. I swerve around freshmen and cut off seniors and pretty much ignore friends who try to say hello, all to make it to the hallway in time. I’m not really worried about being late to Photography, though that would be most unfortunate (I have a rather strong affinity for the subject). No, I’m rushing down the Bowling Alley (the long, wide, empty hallway in the school) because I want to see someone. I have to see someone. When I miss him by a second, I’m crushed. There is nothing more depressing in this big, wide world than watching him turn and mosey on into Spanish class before I’ve had a chance to at least catch a glimpse of his face (that, and knowing that he didn’t get a chance to see me, either, missed a moment to be reminded of my existence).

    I’m lucky today. I panic for a moment, unable to see him, but the crowd thins, parts, and I can see him clearly over the tops of the short people in the hall, and my heart leaps. I hurry, to pass him before he makes it to his classroom door, to make sure he sees me, even though I’m wearing crappy old clothes for painting the mural on the third floor later on and my hair could probably use a little work, and my long stride pays off: he sees me. I can tell by the way his face lights up. His eyes widen and his cheeks go pink (just enough) and his lips pull back, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his teeth in a tiny smile that’s only for me. He looks so damn cute in that instant and I hope I look the same to him as he does to me; I hope he feels the same as I do. We hardly ever speak during these stolen moments together, but that tiny smile is enough to get me through the day—through the week, if necessary. I usually only ever see him Fridays, second period, during my sole study hall, and those are always the most amazing forty-five minutes of my young adult life, each week topping the one before it.

    We smile at each other, and he just looks like he loves me. In my head, this goes differently; in my mind, I pass by, and I manage to tell him I love him as much as he seems to love me. That I’ve been in love with him since that time last year when I had the dream that he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. The dream had come out of left field, and at the time I had laughed it off somewhat awkwardly and moved on, mentioning it to no one, but it had come to be a welcome and accepted addition to my nighttime repertoire, upon some reflection of our relationship (or lack thereof). I love you, the boy who sat next to me in AP European History sophomore year. I love you, the boy who shares my love of reading and my need for philosophical, stimulating conversation. I love you, the boy who calls me a “skinny white whore” (even if that really fits you better, honey).

    I love you, I love you, I love you, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you, in the name of all that’s holy, I’m frickin’ in love with you!

    My eyes say it. My heart screams it. My smile is whispering it to you every weekday, at just about quarter to eleven in the morning, a tiny, but persuasive and moving, gesture.

    I hope that, someday, you clean your ears. Go see a doctor. Get that hearing problem checked out.

    I hope that, someday, you aren’t so deaf, so blind, so ignorant (or maybe it’s my own health I should be worrying about).

    I hope that, someday, I’m not such a whispering fool, lost in my dreams as I try to weave through the crowd on my way to fifth period Photography.

    I hope.

    And I smile.

    And I walk on.