These Are the Things I’ll Never Say

I won’t tell you how mesmerized I was the first time we locked eyes. It’s cheesy, straight out of a movie, but when you looked at me that night, all I could do was stare at my feet. I could never find the right words with you. I still can’t. I giggle, I blush, and all I want is to come across as confident, mature. Sometimes I think I do – I can handle myself around you, on the outside. But my insides are screaming. I won’t tell you that I want to be someone that makes you nervous. That I hope I am someone that makes you nervous.

I won’t tell you that the first time I saw you, I mentally undressed you. I was beyond attracted, and it was all physical. Perfect symmetry – your nose, your eyes, your lips. I secretly wondered what you looked like naked, I even fantasized about how you might be in bed. But I have to push those thoughts aside.

I won’t tell you that I torture myself with thoughts of you. I must be a masochist in some shape or form – to put myself through the constant wondering if I ever cross your mind. I wish I knew.

I wish I could tell you, that my attraction for you now, is much more than purely physical. I wish I could tell you how intelligent I think you are, how when you speak, you use vocabulary that’s not used in the everyday English language, and how beautiful your words are. How beautiful you are.

I wish I could ask you how you feel about me. I always receive mixed signals around you – are we friends, imaginative lovers, acquaintances? My brain knows all of this is so wrong, but my heart – my heart, it yearns to know you more. And I know that all we can ever be is friends, but the thoughts, the fantasies of my heart, they are toying with my brain.

I will never admit to myself how twisted this situation is. I have someone I love very much, but I still want you to want me. I still want to talk to you, to be around you. I will never admit that I love that you turn my cheeks red when you place your hand on my shoulder and you fill me with butterflies that are reminiscent of my younger years.

I won’t come to terms with the fact that I doll myself up for you, that I want you to think I look good. That I look sexy. But the kind of sexy that some women have without even trying. Even though, in the privacy of my room, I have tried. I can’t admit that I put forth an extra effort simply because I know I will be seeing you. I’m on a mission to impress you.

I won’t ever tell you that, in spite of my nerves, I feel exceptionally comfortable around you. You have an aura about you – it’s calming. Maybe that’s why I can speak, laugh, and smile freely around you. I end up saying things to you, that ten minutes later when we are no longer together, I question why I even said that in the first place. I’m an open book with you. I’m surprised you haven’t caught on that I’m ridiculously attracted to you. Or have you? Either way, I will never ask you.

I wish I could ask you more about your personal life. Like I said, I want to get to know you. And I’m more than fine if we become great friends.

I will never tell you my cell phone number. I know you gave me yours, and as you easily spilled those numbers out, I fumbled over my words and never gave you mine in response. And now I never will. Unless you ask. But I know you won’t do that.

I will never tell you that you make me feel special. I feel like you’ve always given me a little extra attention. Maybe all my feigned attempts at perfection are paying off.

I won’t ever tell you that I love the way you speak Italian. It’s your background, after all, and you happen to be fluent in the language. I can still remember the first time you rattled off some sentence in Italian. And in a foreign language, your words were still beautiful. Even more so. Don’t most American women have a weakness for men from foreign countries?

More than anything, I wish I could simply admit to you that I have this insane crush on you. Maybe if I admit it, maybe if I say it out loud, I can start to get over it. Maybe then, I’ll learn what you actually think, how you really feel. But again, the misogynistic part of myself doesn’t necessarily want to get over it. Maybe I’m addicted to the adrenaline, maybe I like living in my own fantasies a bit too much, or maybe it’s because of the fact that all of this is still perfect. It hasn’t been tainted by any relationship, any physicality, or even any rejection – all of these things I feel and wish I could say, but never will – it all exists in my mind. So having something so perfect – I have to relish it. I don’t want to give up the high. In my mind, I can imagine that this attraction isn’t all one-sided; I can tell myself that maybe you are blown away by me, too. Just a little at least.

But silence is golden. And I’ll keep my treasure in the words of these things I’ll never say.

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