Dear Meg,

seventeen

[ November 14 2015 ]

Dear Meg,

There it was again. The look you had a couple of days ago. That foreign look on your face. The look that awaken my urge to punch whoever it was that made you that sad or had hurt you.

Sometimes, you just have to be impulsive. There are times when you just have to do something before you start to overthink and weigh out the pros and cons only to end up backing out of it.

I didn't even realize that I had walked toward your locker when I found myself standing in front of you.

You looked up and gave me a smile. I knew it was forced. I've known you well enough that you're a terrible liar verbally and non-verbally.

I just stared at you, like a deer caught in the headlights. I stood there, frozen, not sure of what to do. And you just stood there, in front of me, looking up at my face, furrowing your eyebrows.

You moved your hand toward my face and touched my chin, as if it's such a casual thing to do, and I held my breath.

You asked me where the tiny scar had come from. I told you that I had cut myself when I was shaving this morning (which is true). You softly padded the cut with your finger, while telling me that I should've had been more careful.

I didn't even realize that we had gotten much closer.

So close that I could smell the flower scent of your shampoo on your hair.

So close that you could probably hear how hard my heart was beating.

I swallowed dryly, I could feel my neck started to heat up out of anxiety.

I managed to called out your name under my breath.

Sometimes, you just have to be impulsive.
Right, Meg?

I guess that's also what you thought of

when you wrapped your arms around me.

Love, Dylan