Donald,

I like you. There – I said it. I have for a while, I suppose. It's not honestly that much of a shock; I mean, you're nice, sweet, funny, charming, an overall good guy. You're the kind of guy girls imagine their prince charming would be like. But, really? I don't know you. I mean, I know that you're a nice, popular guy with a good sense of humor. I know that you're a genuinely good person, and that your middle name is Vincent, and that you blush and it's really adorable. I know that you're actually quite smart despite your Cs. But I don't know anything else. I don't even know if you're 13, or 12, or 14. I don't know if you're an only child or if you have siblings, if you have a good or bad relationship with your parents. I don't know what keeps you up at night. It's just a crush, puppy love. I learned a long time ago that "once upon a time" and "happily ever after" are just fairy tales and that fairy tales don't exist in real life. We're not friends. We're not acquaintances. We're...companions, if you will. We talk in class, but only because you sit near me. We never – ever – talk out side of class, except for that one time when you had to walk me to the nurse during lunch because I was sitting alone and about to throw up and you were the closest one. And besides, it's not like you had a choice. I'm sure those three or four minutes between the cafeteria and the health office were less enjoyable for you than they were for me. You don't like me, or not like that. I've accepted that we're only ever going to be friends, if that. I don't know if I can do friends without wanting something more a bit too much, so perhaps it's better if we just stayed companions. I don't expect you to like me, either – I'm not perfect, I know. I'm eccentric and hyper and scatterbrained and annoying. I'm not the prettiest or the sportiest or the nicest or the smartest. I can be a total bitch and I have a hard time forgiving. I'm insecure and unpopular and nerdy and mean and melodramatic and I tend to ignore people if I'm reading a good book. We're not meant to be; we're in middle school and I was never under any delusions that we are. I'll move on. This isn't some petty romance novel. You don't like me – and it's taken some time...but I'm okay with that. It'll take more time – I still like you. I'll hurt a bit when I see you with her, and it'll sting when you don't say hi, but I'll learn to live with it. If you do read this letter, don't treat me differently because of it. Don't ask me out out of pity. That's a lot worse than rejection. Only tell me you care about me if you mean it. I'll be fine. I'm okay.

Sierra.

P.S. I'll get over it, someday. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next month, maybe next year. I'll get over it.