We'll never be together, you know that right?

Because you live in another country. Yeah, you're a poor kid who lives in Jersey. Controlling mom, uninvolved dad. Grown up sibling.

You learnt not to care about them anymore, because you have me. It's the secret of all secrets, because we're both not sure if it is one. You're just sitting in your dark 8 feet by 8 feet room, spinning around on your swivel chair, not giving a damn that it's 4.13am, you have unfinished homework and you'll probably fall asleep drooling in homeroom tomorrow, while everyone laughs at you. A prolonged, concentrated stare at the computer causes your eyes to sting, but you can't stop, because you have to finish your profile in case someone stumbles across it, and seeing all the witty quotes and comments, decides to contact you and become the best friend you've always needed.

Not to mention, there's that new story you're writing. It's a little cliche, but lately you've been experiencing a term you coined yourself, called creative constipation. Well, actually, sometimes you wonder if you were ever creative at all. Sometimes it seems like the girl who sits next to you failing algebra has a better chance of succeeding than you do. Your future's one totally pitch-black void of darkness. It always seemed so sure, so certain when you were younger. Then suddenly your age caught up with your mind and you got lost.

But don't worry, you can always talk to me. Well, I wish I could talk to you. I know for sure you're out there.

I know you're making me up too, right now. But you won't give me a name. But maybe a face, I couldn't know.

No, I won't get distracted, not even by the song. Because I feel the same way. When you're hanging on to their every word but they don't feel so strongly about you. I hope you'll reciprocate. Should I be the one worrying?

I don't know you, couldn't for sure. Don't know who you are, what you do, what you look like, what time of the day you like muffins. But if fate decides to let up on it, maybe you'll just exist.