With Apologies to Tyler Hilton

July 18th

I saw her again today. But of course, I see her every day. I can’t get the image of her radiant smile out of my head. It’s not even as if she was smiling at me. Today the smile was aimed behind me. At him. He doesn’t treat her the way I would. She isn’t wholly welcome in his solipsistic world. Maybe only I can see that when he makes a joke, she fakes a smile. With him, her eyes don’t glitter the way they do when she’s alone.
I’ve decided that I can no longer keep this a secret. I think I have the courage to let her know how I feel. Not face to face . . . a letter. Well, almost a letter. It’ll be tough. Have you ever tried to describe the indescribable?

July 19th

I saw her again today. I have finally finished the letter. I hope she understands.

“If I were a poet – a Plath, an Eliot, a Larkin – then maybe you would know how I feel. A poet would be able to find the words to describe this situation. But I don’t have the right words. If I were a poet, I’d tell you that your eyes shine in the moonlight when we dance under the star-speckled sky. I’d say that your smile can light up my day like nothing else on this Earth. I could describe the exact way your face creases when you frown.
A poet could inform you that the sunflower is so-called not because of its appearance but because it follows the sun across the sky. You are my sunflower, seeking hope even in the darkest times. A poet could muster up some startling imagery comparing you to life and the universe, but in my eyes, when I’ve got a face as beautiful as yours in front of me, it's impossible to think of even those. You’re the kind of girl who makes me dream when I’m awake. Truthful, humorous, kind – to me you are perfect. My heart aches with this concealed emotion.
But most importantly, I would utter this confession; I love you, for what you are, for what you were and for what you can be.
If I were a poet with all of the right words, I would tell you all of this and more. But in the end, this is only paper and these are only words. I am not a poet, so I guess you’ll never know.”

July 20th

I saw her again today. After school, I took a blank envelope out of the old bureau in the hall and took that up to my room. Sat on my bed, I took the letter off my bedside table. I think it’s my best work yet. The letter was perfect: just like her. Taking the greatest of care, I folded the letter in half and then in half again. There was a crinkling noise as I slid the folded paper into the crisp new envelope. I was surprised as I noticed how much my hands were shaking at the thought of my darkest secret finally being exposed to whom it mattered most.
Running back down the stairs I stopped at the old bureau. I picked up a pen and carefully wrote her name on the envelope. Oh, her name. I could hear it whispering through my head as I wrote it.
I’ll put this through her letterbox tomorrow.

July 21st

I saw her again today. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to post the letter. I physically can’t post the letter. As soon as I get within ten feet of her front door, questions start invading my head. “What if she doesn’t understand?” “Will she laugh at me?” This letter is stupid. There’s no way she could understand how I feel. We are two completely different people. Two different lives. And how would she react? My heart would break in two if she laughed: I’d never be happy again. I hadn’t thought about how she would feel once she found out that she’s always on my mind. But without letting go of this part of who I am, I might never get the chance to tell her. And I know I couldn’t live with myself if I let this opportunity pass.

July 22nd

I saw her again today. I did it. I did it. I did it. I am still breathing as heavily now as I was when I stood outside her front door. That was almost thirty minutes ago.
I knew I had to tell her. The secret was eating away at my insides. I could no longer function normally for fear that someone would accidentally uncover my long-kept obsession.
By the time I had walked up to the house next to hers, I could feel my heart racing. I was holding the letter so tightly in my left hand that my knuckles were white and my fingers ached. I stopped at the path leading to her door. “This is it,” I thought. In retrospect, walking up that path was ridiculously hard. My eyes darted around, as if expecting someone to jump out and yell, “I knew it! You love her!” But no one jumped out. There was no yelling of preconceived notions.
Silence. A great sigh. My fingers touched the flap of the letterbox and gently lifted it up. I slid the letter halfway through the gap and paused. “Please understand,” I whispered to no one, and then pushed the letter through. It seemed like an eternity had passed before I heard the soft ‘pat’ as the letter hit the carpet on the other side of the door. Now there’s no turning back.