Dear Micah,

I know what you must be thinking, who shoves a letter into your forth period math textbook wedged between pages 136 and 137. Which just so happens to be the page numbers of yesterdays homework. You know, now that I think of it, you'd probably never find it because you never open your text book to begin with, to know that this was lasts week homework anyways. So if your reading this now, your probably in room 206 getting ready to study on your spare third period because you really want to pass your exam for forth.

Please don't ask me how I know these things. I don't have superpowers and despite my best efforts, I try to refrain from watching you every time you get in my line of vision. I mean could you blame me? I almost feel guilty for looking at you run around my block at 6:00am with your shirt off. Now, wait! I know what your thinking again – why do I know the exact time you run each morning? Am I a stocker? The answer to your first question is simple. I do not know the exact time you go for your morning jog each morning. Therefore you can not blame me for getting up at around 5:50am – depending on the weather- to peek out my window to see the raising sun just to be blinded by a shirtless man running closer to my house. I can tell you that it happens at 6:00am only because while you stop to stretch your hamstrings on my drive way, I hit my head repeatedly on my windowpane when my 6:00 cell phone alarm goes off.

"Would you like more coffee or perhaps another danish?" Shit! I jolt back my hand to draw a big black line across the page to only push my coffee over the edge of the table with my elbow, while trying to cover up this embarrassing letter.

"Yvette! I haven't even been here for longer than ten minute's. Could you bother someone one else with your rehearsed lines" I hissed under my breath trying to avoid anymore people in the local Sit In Diner to stop their conversations to look at the teenage girl having a breakdown in her booth.

"Well now that you've finished your coffee," Yvette the 56 year old waiter from hell pokes her shoe clad foot into the mess I made. You know, Yvette had plans to be someone before her boyfriend left her for that tramp Suzy on prom night. They were going to move to New York and build a new life there, her as a Broadway star and Joe as her manager. Suzy had no right shaking her big cheer leader boobs in her Joe's face, she had no right at all to take advantage of his drunk state and forget who he came there with. I'm sure if she sat down to tell me her real story, it would go along the lines of that. Until then I'm free to use the imagination god himself gave me. "You won't have a problem paying for this new cup" and off she went to bring me a order of too sweet coffee.

To think because this place was called a Sit in Diner I'd actually be allowed to sit in.

Now, where was I? I try to salvage what's left of the crushed letter stuffed under my diner plate. The black ink line from my pen doesn't look to shabby after all. It gives the over all feel of the letter more... character if I do say so myself. Which of course, I do. I lay my pen to the paper.

Am I a stocker? There are so many reason's for one's infatuation over another person. Not that I'm infatuated with you, I'm infatuated with a lot of things, you see. I'm infatuated with my dog, Bingo. So please don't be overly flattered, this letter must be boasting your ego enough. Don't you dare roll your eyes Micah! Your ego is equivalent to that of an Elephant compared to that of a Mouse. Although for what's it's worth I do stock my mother's china plates from biggest to smallest, if that answers your question.

I suppose I should get to the point of this letter. It's been going on a lot longer then I expected it to, not that I've been sitting around thinking of the words I would indent onto this paper. The exact opposite really, should you just so happen to wonder. There's really no point to this letter, you'll probably never find it. It might not even survive the trip to your textbook, the one that you hardly ever open. I could always give this letter to you up close and personal, maybe even stay to see the reaction on your face as you read it. I just might even have the balls – if I could grow some, being female and all – to say it with my own mouth to your face. I might even look into your brown eyes to see if you might take this as a joke.

Of course this is all hypothetically speaking. I would never subject myself to such humiliation, as to be laughed at in our high school North Kennedy's hallway, like some sad sick teenage movie drama. I have the pride to at least hide behind a piece of notebook paper. When you read my name at the bottom of this letter, you'll only laugh at my comment on your ego. I know from my earlier hints you already know who I am. I have told you many times before that your smile only drops the panties of females now because of the braces you got rid of back in ninth grade. When you still talked to people who were your real friends. When you didn't ditch Tanya the nicest girl in school for a higher ranked girl on the male hormone list. Now here I am writing a god damn letter to you.

Shows how much of a hypocrite I am right? Not that I ever said I hated you, because I didn't, you said I did. You've been saying it since grade ten in Mr. Hector's science class when I refused to do all the work on our project because you had a date with the new girl. You even had the nerve to to call me to pick you up, because you couldn't go home smelling like beer. You sat on my bed telling me how much you missed your old friends, and that you have to date all the girls your friends think are hot. That's no excuse, we have the same friend group to my distaste and I don't do anything that the girls tell me to do. So get over yourself.

Micah, you do whatever you want to, you just needed a place to crash which you admitted to me in the morning after throwing up in my bathroom. I'm not even your friend despite our friends being friends, Yet you call me each time you need to get out of something, and you know what your excuse is? 'You don't baby me. You put me in my place and I respect that'. Yea well, you pushed yourself into my space so many times that I... need to tell you to stop coming around. I don't know what your doing, or what Great Micah Plan you have out for me but I'm not sticking around to find out.

"Could you move your foot?" Yvette says from somewhere below me.

"Gahh!" Another ink line traces its self onto my paper.

"I need to finish cleaning the coffee you split. You've been so wrapped up in that thing you're writing you can't hear me call your name. Now move your foot sweetie" Yvette sighs agitated.

"You could have tapped me..." I say.

"Where's the fun in that?" She laughs. More like a crackle. I had to wait for her to leave before writing, maybe that's why I wrote the things I did next. Yvette was rubbing her bad imagined life off onto me.

When you stop to stretch your hamstrings on my driveway I won't being coming out to join you in my sweats. On our shared spare third period don't drop your stupid textbook on my table anymore with your excuse that you need help. I'm as bad at math as you are, and I'm sure there are many other tables and people in this library who wouldn't mind the breath of fresh air you bring to the table. 'Cause as much as you annoy me, I can't help but compliment the way you can go on from day to day making up your steps as you go. Not caring who you hurt in the process and that won't be me. I'm not you Micah and I never will be. So keep jogging your steps past my house and barley passing math, I'll be lucky if you even find this letter without me there to remind you to check it for further notes. Which I will do right after I stuff this in there.

I have to say that I hope you don't tell anyone about that time you came over and my mother was drunk in the living room. I hope you don't tell anyone about that breakdown you seen me have in my bedroom the day you climbed into it without warning. That I lost something I won't ever get back. I hope you don't ever repeat what I told you that day. I'll never tell anyone one that you've been emancipated since grade 11, and spend most nights writing poems about the curve of some girl's hips, and her full lips. I won't tell anyone about that time we seen your parents downtown and they acted like the didn't know you. Don't blame me and say that I'm leaving you. We weren't even friends! What ever this is... it shouldn't have ever been. Micah you just kept putting yourself in places of my life you shouldn't even know about with out a care in the world. Telling me to open up to you when you wouldn't do the same for me.

Everything we know about each other is a mistake. I can't sit here smiling at you like I'm not feeling what I'm feeling. I can't come to your house and hear you singing about a girl you love. I'm not going to sit her and imagine that's it's me, that I've been so blind to not see. So...

So ignore my next few for words. They don't mean a thing. Just lines on a paper, meaning nothing now.

I..., I..., Think I...

"Love you too" I shoot up from my seat and looked at the person staring over the shoulder of my booth from theirs. I must have looked shocked by the way he was looking at me. They must have been there the whole time reading as I wrote.

I smiled so slowly I think I surprised myself.

Micah.