You pick at your tee shirt and glance over to test him. He isn't paying any attention to you; you heave a sigh and stare hopelessly at the CD rack.

You don't want him to be around, but you do. You don't want to meet his eyes, have him see you blush, know that some way, somehow, know that you are looking at him. That you like him.

You don't want him to know, but you do.

Delia looks at you and sighs. "Just talk to him," she whispers under her breath to you. You shoot her a look.

"What if I look like an idiot?" you ask her, and she just rolls her eyes and you know why. You always look like an idiot.

You glance back at him. He is staring off with a faraway look in his eyes. You want him to be thinking about you.

xxx

His name is Alex and you don't know the first thing about him. He has brown hair and brown eyes and Calculus second period (you see him come out of the classroom every day.) You've talked to him maybe five times in high school, and you don't really know how many times before that. You've known him for as long as you can remember, but you've only started liking him now.

The neighborhood is pretty small, so you see him a lot even when you don't mean to: at the movies, in the shopping mall, on the streets. You see him in the mall today, and you try not to stare.

But he sees you, and recognizes you, and says hi because that's what people do when they recognize each other. You stutter out a, "O-Oh, hi."

"You're in my English class, right?" he says, and when you shake your head, he says, "No? Must be someone who looks like you then, sorry."

You feel embarrassed, either for yourself or for him you're not sure, even though he doesn't look very embarrassed.

Delia nudges you from behind, and you want to hit her.

He smiles at you and your knees almost collapse. "See you around, then," he says, and you blush out a, "Bye."

xxx

You don't really see him that often in school, and you don't like that. So you're too scared to say anything when you do, and he never says anything either.

You sort of want him to notice you, to remember you: like "that blond haired boy" or "the short kid." You want him to think you're attractive, or at least nice. But then you remind yourself, he doesn't even like me and then add as an afterthought, he's probably not even gay. You know it's a small jump assuming so, but it's a small jump so it's a safe assumption.

He's in your lunch and you watch him from the corner of your eye (you wish he's watching you too.) Your hands are in a skinny love together, and your friends give you endearingly pathetic looks.

"Logan," Marshall says to you. "Why don't you ask him out?" Marshall's always been a straightforward one.

"No!" you say, and your voice goes embarrassingly high. "No," you say again. "I can't just ask him, if I don't know he likes me."

"So you're just going to stand around until you get over him, or he miraculously asks you out?" says Tina with a roll of her eyes.

You shrug. "Probably."

xxx

It might be a bit shallow, how you started liking him. You'd seen him one day like you've never seen him before, and then boom! you'd started liking him. And you've seen him like that ever since, and you've liked him ever since.

He's rather good-looking and you don't think you have a chance with him—why would he like you, when he could have anyone else? You know that people only get together if someone makes the first move, but you don't have the balls to and he'll only make the first move if he actually likes you; so you're sort of stuck here pining from afar, really.

He's still quite nice, and you don't want him to think of you as boring or stupid. So when one day you're in the hall and you're talking with him (which happens once in a blue moon, but you love that blue moon) and he asks you about your weekend, you try to make it sound as interesting as possible.

"Oh, uh, you know," you stutter out. "Fun."

He smiles at you. "Cool. My weekend was pretty fun too. I went out to play tennis with my cousins, except it was crazy hot so we couldn't stay out that much…"

As he talks, you can't help but think, Argh, I am so hopeless and I'm never going to get him to like me this way, before you remember, oh right, it's not like he'll ever like me anyways.

xxx

The only people you've told about your crush are a select few of your closest friends—you know, the ones who nudge and wink at you every time he walks by you. But when he's not around, it's like they forget and don't want to point him out to you anymore. And sometimes you want to talk about him.

"I talked to Alex today," you tell Marshall and Quinn, who are busy speculating their Art History teacher's gender. Quinn's a lesbian and claims she has an excellent transgender radar. Marshall thinks Quinn's full of herself.

They stop talking, unexpectedly, and look at you. "What did you guys talk about?" asks Quinn, because Marshall pretends not to care.

You shrug. "Stuff," you answer. "It was after second period."

"Ooh, conversations after second period," Delia cuts in teasingly, appearing out of nowhere, and you roll your eyes at her.

"You never know, he could like you," Quinn tells you wisely.

"Why would he like me?" you say. "I mean, I know I'm not awful or anything, but why me? Plus, there's the whole dealing with the fact that he's most likely straight thing."

Marshall pats you on the back; you know he's not trying to make you feel better, but help you deal with the truth.

"It's his fault that he doesn't like you. He should be flattered that you like him."

But sometimes the truth isn't enough and even though you know it's unlikely, you just want him to notice you. To like you.

xxx

Jealousy is an awful thing, because you hate it when he's with girls. You know that all his guy friends are just guy friends, but every time a girl talks and laughs with him like he's a prospective boyfriend, you want to wring her pretty little neck and shout, I saw him first!

Of course, you don't.

But it really is awful and you hate the way the jealousy sinks into your gut; but when it's you talking to him, you want to laugh in all the girls' faces, even if he does just see you as a guy, and not even a friend.

You never say hi to him and he never says hi to you in the hallways, but in Physics, the one class you have together (and he has friends and you're super quiet so it doesn't really count. He's never noticed you in class until—) he does a double take when everyone is grouping together for a project, and says, "Oh hey, Logan, I didn't know you were in my class."

Didn't expect you to, you think, and answer with a weak smile and, "Yeah."

This seems to be all he wants to say to you, though, because he goes off with his friends again and you let out a little resigned sigh. Sometimes you wonder why you like him. You wish you had friends in this class, so he'd think that you were cool; you wish that you were as good with people as he is. But you're stuck alone, looking like a loser, and you wonder what he really thinks of you.

xxx

Perhaps you're reading too much into it, but the very next day you see him in an altogether unexpected place (the gym) and it makes you happy. Maybe it's a sign, a clue that he might like you (you're stupid, you tell yourself later, and you're definitely reading too much into things.) You won't take your chances, though, but you assure yourself that he does not hate you or think you are annoying. At least, you hope so.

It's his birthday a few days later, and you promise to yourself that you'll wish him a happy birthday when you see him in school. But you don't see him, and as school ends you figure that you wouldn't have had the courage to do so, anyways.

But you're friends with him on Facebook and sure, it's Facebook—but everyone is wishing him a happy birthday, so why not you? You write on his Wall and hope he's not like normal boring people, that he won't just "like" your post but actually respond.

And he does.

Alex Kristopolis thanks, logan :)

And maybe it's a bit embarrassing, but you feel ridiculously happy that he'd written your name. And you ridiculously hope that he'd felt the same when he'd seen your own "happy birthday!" and you ridiculously hope that he feels the same whenever he sees you.

xxx

You pride yourself in the fact that you find Alex in the mall again—it had been an entirely random guess, but you've seen him in the music store many times before so you'd only assumed that he'd be there again. When you pretend not to see him, Delia nudges your shoulder and gestures over to him, and you nod like, I know. Delia narrows her eyes at you like, You know he'd be here, didn't you and you turn away with a little smile. Maybe.

You don't have the balls to go over and talk to him, but out of the corner of your eye you manage to catch a glimpse of what kind of music he likes. Out of the corner of your eye, you manage to see what he's wearing. Out of the corner of your eye, you hope that he might notice you too. Out of the corner of your eye, you want his heart.

Sadly—or thankfully, you feel a little bit of each—he leaves the store without noticing you. But it's okay.

Just seeing him is enough.