An Open Letter to a Guy

I didn’t want to like you, but I wasn’t scared to like you.  I mean, you weren’t even my type.  I wanted to be friends and we were friends… I guess.

But, then you were so much cooler than I thought you were.  You were so much better than I thought you were.  You were kind to everyone, not just the people who mattered to you, you were smart, smart enough to do anything you wanted, and you were funny, at least, you thought I was funny and that, in and of itself, was funny.

You were still not my type.  I wanted to be friends and we were friends… I guess.

But, then we had so much more in common than I thought.  Inside jokes and easy laughter grew naturally out of our conversations and, suddenly, you were no longer a stranger that I was getting to know; you were someone that I looked forward to seeing.

But, you were still not my type.  I think I wanted to be friends, so we were friends… I guess.

I don’t know when the line was crossed, and, honestly, I don’t know if that matters.  All I know is that I saw you, and my head cocked slightly to the side as I regarded you thoughtfully, suddenly seeing things that I had never seen before.

Were you my type?  Do I even have a type?  We were friends, and I wanted to be friends… I think.

Then I was curious, an all-consuming curiosity that distracted me from my regular activities but was immeasurably fun to endure.

Just a curiosity, because, after all, you weren’t my type.  I just wanted to be friends… I think.

And then you admitted that you had liked me from the moment you had first saw me, and I felt my chest tighten with… with what?  I didn’t know what it was.  I just knew that my heart felt foreign beating in my chest, I didn’t know what to do with my arms, there was a silly smile on my face that I couldn’t wipe off, and then, suddenly, you were kissing me.

You’re a really good kisser.

I floated home in a daze, mind jumbled, and the only complete thought that surfaced was the unequivocal desire to see you again.  I think you’re my type.

I sent you a text the next day, but you never responded.  I was confused.  You always text me back.  I tried again, one text a day for the next two days, but no response.

I was sitting on my bed, staring at my phone with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and an odd stinging sensation on the back of my neck when it dawned on me.

Your phone wasn’t dead.  You weren’t busy. You weren’t desperately trying to answer me while someone held you down.

I just wasn’t your type.

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