A/N: I don't know , I had this idea randomly like in the middle of sleeping, and I just felt like typing it.

You know that I am in love with you.

I know that you know because my feelings practically permeate from my skin and if you just so happen to be standing within a relatively close proximity you can hear the butterflies fluttering violently around my belly, flapping, turning, thwarting, head-butting .

They want out.

If they do not get out then they are going to devour my insides and it will be all your fault.

We are sitting about what I'd estimate to be one fourth of a foot across from each other and you are explaining Europe's second industrial revolution, sort of smirking, sort of avoiding my gaze and I'm positive that how much I like you is written across my blazing red cheeks (metaphorically ) and how much I like you is scrawled across the hidden spaces of my knees and wrists (literally) with gel pens and smelly sharpie, and even if I somehow knew for a fact that I would die of ink poisoning I think that I'd still write, probably.

Your mouth makes the hard a sound in railroad more like a soft e, like 'relroad', and I notice, and I realize that I really like that, the way you pronounce the word incorrectly.

Europe's second industrial revolution is possibly the most boring subject in all of Europe, and the whole world for that matter, and probably Mars and Hell, too, but the truth is that I'd rather be doing this stupid assignment with you than not have any assignment at all, by myself.

I know that you have a girlfriend who is in college and has a southern accent and the nicest boobs ever, and I know that the two of you do bad things on the weekends but I think that I love you anyway. I think that I would love you no matter what; even if you clubbed seals as a hobby, even if you ate babies, even if you smoked menthol cigarettes and used my left eye as an ashtray, and even though I'm pretty sure that I don't know squat about love I think that I would love you, still.

I want to tell you all of these things without creeping you out, which is impossible because they are the creepiest confessions one can make to a practical stranger. I want to tell you that a lot of times, I have dreams about you, weird dreams, not like erotic weird, just random, like sometimes you are a game show champion millionaire with an Italian car and a swimming pool full of champagne, and we splash around, swallowing gulps of alcohol and celebrating your most recent winning streak. Sometimes you are a dirty skanky riverrat like Johnny Depp in Chocolat, and your name is something foreign and exotic like Rasputin. But last night I dreamt that you were just you, just the boy with a foxy college girlfriend and an adorable inability to pronounce certain words like 'railroad' and that is just fine, and we were sitting in class next to each other watching rain slide down the windows. This morning when I woke up, it was raining outside, and it reminded me of you.