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To You...

To You,

My hands are shaking. Not because I'm cold or need to eat. But because I'm writing this letter. I know... I won't be giving it to you or anything, but I'm sick of holding all this in. So, I'm writing it down, getting it out of my head and putting it out into the cosmos... or whatever.

Anyway... I hate you.

Okay, I don't hate you. But I do. I hate that I like you so much. I hate that when you enter the room, I shake and stumble over my words - that I can't think straight. Not just when you're in the room but when you're on my mind, too. I don't know why I react this way to you. Sure, it's probably something to do with my chemical reaction to being drawn to your pheromones or something scientific and stuff. But why? Why you? And why like this?

Sure, you're handsome – in a unique way. You're sarcastic, funny, witty and all that. You're a hard wrker, and you're pretty popular as far as I can tell as far as with your coworkers and the regulars at your job. You're the whole package. But... you have no clue I'm alive.

Okay, another exaggeration. You say hi to me. You laugh when I attempt to crack a joke when you're around. And you smile when we just so happen to look at each other at the same time... which is almost every time you pass by me since I can't seem to not look at you, and then, inevitably, sometimes, you look at me, too. But hey, no need to be nit-picky here.

Bottom line? I like you.

And I'll probably never do anything about it.

Why? Because you're you, and I'm me. You're all those things I said a couple paragraphs ago. Me? I'm nothing like the girls I see throwing themselves at you. And yes. I see how much you eat it up – the popularity.

So, I'll just be happy with our little moments that I cherish so much. Those days when you smile at me and say hi. When I tease you about your shirt, and you almost blush. Those silly little things that give me just enough to keep coming into your work and then leaving feeling all giggly and girly... but never actually taking the risk.

So, now, I'll fold this up, tuck it into the back of my notebook and forget its there until one day when I pull it out, look it over, roll my eyes at myself and burn it. But until then? Thank you. As torturous as it is, I enjoy what we have. Even if it is probably purely in my head.

Oh. And I still hate you.

Sincerely,

Awkward Nerd