Dear You,

From the minute I met you, I became obsessed with your contagious laugh, the way you sang along to “All I Want for Christmas is You” at the dance, the fact that you quoted The Fault in Our Stars, your dimples, the way your eyes scrunched up when you smiled. Thinking of you makes me nostalgic for a time we never had together and long to relive the moments we did share.

When I picture you in my mind, I think of when you would say hi to me after school when we’d pass each other on our way to the bus stop. I picture you reading Charles Dickens while wearing your ugly green sweatshirt. I think of the time we went to lunch and you stopped to pick me and her flowers on the way. I think of your stupid teenage boy jokes in our group messages that I would laugh at but wouldn’t reply to. I think of when she told me that you confessed your love for her by writing her a poem. I remember because I wanted so desperately to be the one you wrote poems for.

I want to hold your hand and walk around the museum and kiss you in front of the Van Gogh painting. I want you to wrap your hands in my hair when you kiss me. I want to feel your hands around my waist. I want to share secrets with you. I want us to make mixtapes for each other. I want you to want me.

Someday I hope you accidentally read this and put together that it’s about you and you’ll ask me about it. You’ll say that you think it’s about yourself and I’ll say it’s just a story, I made it up, and it’s about different people. My cheeks will turn red and my ears will be hot and I’ll be stuttering and you’ll grab my wrist and pull me in and wrap your hands in my hair.
Love,
Me

—By Mia F., 18, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania