A/N: The first two paragraphs of the letter part can be used as a monologue.
"Hey, you got your glasses fixed." He shoots me a smile before heading back to his seat.
I wander back to my seat, unsure how to feel. Excited, maybe, that he actually noticed and complemented me. Or worried because good things won't last forever.
Class hasn't started yet. I take out a piece of notebook paper and a pencil. I begin to write.
I'm not sure how I feel right now. Happy? No. Glad? Kind of. Maybe confused is the right word. I'm a bit taken aback whenever somebody decides to talk to me. I still don't understand why they'd want to. I know my self-esteem is non-existent, but I can't help feeling that I'm not good enough for people. Why would anyone want to look at me? How could they stand to? I'm hideous. It takes a lot of willpower to leave my house in the morning, because I feel so ugly. How can you bear to be seen with me, let alone publicly advertise our friendship?
I feel…not happy, because I never truly feel that way, but warm because you actually take the time to talk to me and laugh at my jokes and listen to me. I also feel afraid to talk to you sometimes. All the people in my life who I've opened up to have left me, and I don't want to lose you, too. I wish I could trust people, but I always end up screwing things up. I want to be able to tell you things, and get closer to you, but…I can't. If you truly knew what I was thinking, you would leave me, too.
I know that nobody will love me more than a friend, and who could blame them? I know I'll be alone for the rest of my life, if I live to graduate. Sometimes I think, what's the point? I'm on the verge of spilling everything to you. But you'd have me hospitalized. You'd want me to get help. What if I don't want help? If I wanted help, I would ask someone to help me. I'll keep my secrets until the day I die. Literally.
I wish that someone would love me. And I wish that someone would be you. We both know that's never going to happen. But I can still dream, can't I?
I read the note over. I'm about to give it to him when the teacher walks in. I'll have to wait until after class.
When the bell rings, I linger by my desk.
He looks at me and asks, "Are you coming?"
Then I fake a smile and reply, "Yes, I'll be right there."
I toss the crumpled letter in the bin and walk out the door.
A/N: This came to me randomly while I was cleaning my glasses. No, I do not know anybody named Angelo, if that's what you're thinking. But how would I know what you're thinking? I'm not a psychic. Or am I? I'm not. Are you? I doubt it. This author's note is becoming a rant. Maybe I should stop now. [end]