Dear Jackson,
I remember the first time I spoke to you. The air was thick, sticky from the August air and we stood like awkward preteens under the oak trees. I was tall, you were more so. I was loud, and you were shy and trying to explain your plans to become a doctor. I said something sarcastic and you cracked a small smile. That smile melted my heart and reformed it, leaving behind a painful throb for the next three years because that small conversation seemed to be our last. I would try and instigate something, anything between us but you were the star football player and I was the alternative girl that had an unhealthy obsession with anime and lemon bars. I compared everyone to you. Your intelligence, your build, your goofy hair that always fell in your eyes, and that awful, beautiful goddamn smile.
When I still thought we had hope, I often found myself thinking of how our first date would go. You being shy and me being awkward would cause more than a few blushes and accidental nudges. We would go sit in the back of your pick up truck and look at the stars, eating pizza and watching terrible comedy specials on Netflix while arguing over who would have the last piece, refusing to take it ourselves, because politeness was the utmost importance in those sacred minutes. After we were done listening to Bo Burnham and watching shooting stars burn up the atmosphere, we would notice that time had gone by too fast and it was time to go back home. Maybe we would have started dating, maybe we would have stayed friends. Or maybe we would have become what we are right now.
A couple of strangers that pass by in the halls as I watch you kiss the other tall girl in the school who is nothing like me. We would become two people who share one class together and try to fill awkward silences with disgusting small talk. But one thing is for sure. Had that night happened, I wouldn't be left wondering what could have been. And that thought, that regret, is what hurts most whenever I see that crooked, doofus smile of yours when you look at her.
When you look at her, instead of at me.
-R.B
