If we met in September, I fell in love with the falling leaves.
In Science class, we studied bones and I stared at you, your clavicle and mandible and metatarsals. In English class, we read about doves and I imagined a thousand doves fluttering in my stomach and clogging my ribcage. And at the end of every day, I watched you walk down my street, surrounded by bouquets of friends that blossomed whenever you spoke. Sometimes, when I didn't feel so in love, I ached just to be at least your friend.
Through September, I made friends with relations to you. I talked to boys who sat at your lunch table and the airheaded, glossy-lipped girls you seemed to adore. There were so many opportunities where I could've talked directly to you—when we passed each other in the upstairs hallway between classes, when we dropped off our books at the same time at our side-by-side lockers, you even sat next to me in homeroom. It was like the universe had purposely aligned us to be with each other whenever possible.
And at every chance the stars threw at me to talk to you, I grew increasingly more nervous around you. I started thinking of you less as a person and more of a god, someone that would never like me and talk to me and never think of me more than someone in their homeroom. Maybe that's what I was. Our run-ins went beyond lucky coincidences and started to look more like plans; I saw you between every single class and you always seemed to be around the lockers when I came. But the minute I come over, you're gone as fast as you appeared like you were never there in the first place.
