To the boy I once kissed at that concert,

Is it because I was the closest girl to you? Probably. But for the sake of this outpouring of my innermost emotions, let’s pretend you chose me from the sea of sweaty teen girls.

First, did you see my face before we began? Did you like it? I was scared to look at your face because you were behind me and I thought you might be ugly. (You weren’t, congratulations.)

Could you tell that my hair was straightened? Could you imagine it curly? Which way did you prefer? What color were my eyes? Did you look? Was makeup running down my face? You were sweaty. So was I.

You are random and nameless and completely unattached to me. I like that. I’ll never be afraid to do something stupid in front of you, or fumble in front of you, or cry in front of you. I’ll never see you again. You won’t tell your friends anything about me, good or bad, because you’ve forgotten me. In fact, I only think about you because when I get pensive my memories are acute.

Thanks for 10 minutes of attention during the concert and an hour of attention after the concert. (My friends really grilled me about you.) Sometimes you just need a little something to validate your self-esteem. Can you now tell mine is shit? Did you know then? Is that why you chose me? ♦