28 Days
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We met for the first time on the first of July. You were tall, blonde, and rather skinny. I remember thinking you were shy; and since I was shy as well, I didn't try to approach you. You had a grey cap covering your head and aviators shielding your eyes.

We started to become fast friends by day two. Suddenly you didn't seem as quiet and reserved as the day before. But still, you were nobody special, just another boy I seemed to click with. I remember you did something and I jokingly asked you if you were gay. You responded with a dramatic display of outrage at the thought. I also remarked on your ridiculously long eyelashes and said I wanted to cut them off and put them on my own nonexistent-eyelashed-eyes. You hid your eyes from me for the next two days.

Days three, four, and five opened my eyes to you. How had I ever thought you were just like any other boy I'd ever met? You had strong opinions, big passions, and told me a lot about yourself, your friends, your family, your life back home. Nobody had ever opened up to me like this before. We hung out a lot, shared a plate during meals, and you stole my food during lunchtimes.

It seemed like I learned at least six new things from you every day. We all thought you were just an attractive, funny boy. But I found out there was a lot more to you. You put in six packs of sugar in one cup of coffee. I told you that was crazy and that's why you were so ADD-like at night. People drink coffee for the caffeine, not for a sugar high.

In the blink of an eye, a week had passed. I remember telling you it didn't seem like we'd only known each other for seven days. You were my new best friend, and something felt missing whenever you weren't around. I told you I didn't like you wearing your aviators, because I didn't like not being able to see your eyes.

You never wore them again.

You owe me eight dollars, from the bus fare and the entrance fee into the museum. You promised you would pay me back, but I still haven't seen my money. In all honesty, it's not a huge deal, but I still feel a little cheated. Are promises that cheap to you?

Nine was the number of packets of cough drops we bought together. The number of times we pooled our money together to fight off the ever-persistent cold. I think I made you sick since I was the one that had the sore throat and cough first. You probably contracted the germs from me. The night when you were so sick that you went to bed early, I also went to bed early, claiming I too, felt sick.

At least ten people came up to me every day to inquire as to what was going on between you and me. I remember acting nonchalant and waving away their questions, saying we were just friends. But I was secretly pleased inside; if so many people noticed, maybe you did feel something for me more than just friendship. But I don't make first moves.

Eleven o'clock at night would be the time when you started waking up, and the time I started falling asleep. Gone would be your morning eye bags, and in its place would be an energized boy chasing squirrels and pushing me around. Eleven was also the day you asked me why I didn't tell you anything about myself. I remember floundering, really wondering why I didn't. Back home, I'm the more talkative of my friends, having been accused of monopolizing the conversation many times. But with you, I felt like my life was boring, there was really nothing interesting to tell you. I wish I had told you more about myself now.

I realized we were complete opposites, and once listed twelve things on how we were so different. You showered in the morning, I showered at night. You didn't understand how I could even wake up in the morning without a shower. I didn't understand how you could stand to sleep in a bed without showering. You hated cheese and I loved cheese. You were outgoing and crazy… I wasn't. You drank and partied, I wasn't interested in that kind of life. My list went on and on, but you didn't realize the deeper meaning. I knew that whatever we had, it wouldn't last. We were too different. You just looked amused and told me more about your life at home.

You said you had a thirteen year old brother. I wonder if he's just like you. Popular and brilliant. I remember wondering if he too, had a lot of friends, just like you. I wonder if you're nice to your brother.

Your last big secret to me was the story of when you were fourteen. You, a shy loner who ate lunch alone in the library every day? I felt flattered that you would tell me something like this, something you obviously didn't want to remember. But I also remember how you said you don't hang out with your old friends anymore, the "shy losers" like you once were. I'd told you that you should still talk to them, even though now you're popular and they're not. They hung out with you even when the friends you have now didn't. You just laughed and told me your old friends were losers. I felt a little chunk of my heart chip off. You weren't perfect, and I was just beginning to realize it.

We spent an average of fifteen hours a day together. I don't think it was enough. There was so much you told me about yourself, and so much more I wanted to know. I had never spent so much time with someone before; it was exciting and thrilling.

You told me your sister is almost sixteen. You talked about her a couple times as well. I once asked you if you thought your sister was annoying. All brothers think their sisters are annoying at one time or another. At least mine does. Instead, you looked thoughtful and remarked, "She's actually more popular than me, believe it or not. And she's going out with my best friend. And he's the most popular guy at school. No lie." I felt a little awkward. Do you rate how much you like your sister based on how popular she is?

We met when you were seventeen. I remember thinking to myself; I hope you come visit me when I turn seventeen. Now I'm almost seventeen and I don't even know if I want you to come. I also remember wishing that once I turn seventeen, I'll become as confident and amazing as you are.

You're going to be eighteen soon, and I once considered sending you a card and a long letter, updating you on my life, catching up on old times. Now, I have eighteen reasons why not to. Eighteen seems so old and frightening. I feel like once you turn into in adult, you'll be even farther away from me than ever before.

Nineteen was the day I finally admitted to my friends that I liked you a little more than a friend. My reason was that you grew on me, and it suddenly struck me that I had a 'crush' on you. That was a lie because yes, you grew on me, but I also started liking you before "Day Nineteen".

Once the big two-zero of July struck, I realized our time together was almost up. I think you noticed that I became more clingy, and walked up to you more often as opposed to having have you always walk up to me. You were the same as ever, and I tried to act the same as well. But I remember feeling like my heart was slowly breaking, and there was nothing I could do to hold it together.

Twenty-one was the number of times you surprised me. You were never my 'ideal boy'. You never deliberately opened the door and let me walk first. But I counted, and there were twenty one times where you did something so incredible that I loved you more each time.

I'm not a big believer in love at first sight. Then again, this wasn't first sight anymore. But still, twenty two days isn't a very long time – less than a month. I felt myself falling and struggled to stay afloat. Nobody like you had ever been interested in me before. I refused to believe that you could like me back.

You took twenty three pictures of yourself with my camera. The first time I looked through all the pictures that were taken, I had a heart attack when there was a picture of your crotch – albeit jean covered – on my camera. I considered printing it and sending it to you by mail, knowing you would get a good laugh out of it. But I didn't. And I won't.

I wish I could've spent twenty four hours with you every day. I get tired of people so quickly, but I never got tired of you. I could never get tired of you. I wish I had told you twenty four more things about myself and my life to you. Maybe then, we could've lasted.

Twenty five is the number of times I wanted to tell you how I felt about you. I wanted you to tell me what you felt about me. How could somebody so brilliant ever be interested in somebody like me? I wanted to ask you to tell me what it was you saw in me, because I couldn't see it in myself. But I kept quiet every single time.

We spent twenty six hours together non stop that last day and night we were together. Maybe that night, you too, felt like time was short. I drew on your arm, and you drew on mine. Maybe someday we'll have ink poisoning. We both cat napped on your pillow on the floor. I remember it smelled just like you. On the twenty sixth hour you gave me one last hug, slipped your aviators over your eyes, and left. And I was left gasping for breath.

I was still pining for you, twenty seven days after our goodbye. I checked twenty seven times a day for an email, anything to show me you didn't already forget about me.

Finally, I've decided it's not worth living with heartbreak every day. I've stopped expecting anything. I've realized I was nothing but a distraction for less than twenty eight days. I see pictures of you now, with your aviators hiding your eyes, a can of beer in one hand and a girl in other. And I can't seem to figure out how I ever fit in with your life.