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This Is Love

By @hanna_michellee



I looked at him.

I didn’t know before I started this semester that I could look at someone with so much infatuation. His smile, the way two dimples appeared on each side of his sweet soft lips every time he laughed. He looked so beautiful when he laughed. And those eyes—they seemed so adventurous. I myself hadn’t been on too many adventures. You could say I was a bit of a goody too-shoe, but he looked like he experienced something different every day. You could see it in the depth of his sagacious brown eyes. He was everything that I wanted. No guy could compare to the way he looked and I was sure he never looked at me the same way.

 I looked away.

I should stop myself before I get caught, I thought. The truth is, I was infatuated with him. And while any normal girl would be excited about crushing on someone like him, I was no ordinary girl. No, I was a 20 year old virgin. Oh no, not just a virgin in the sex department, but also in kissing and having a boyfriend. I never caught the eye of the sweet guys, just the stares of creeps whose only agendas were getting in my pants, so I chose to stay alone. Sadly, staying single came with the cost of getting older each year and competing with other girls who held more experience than me. It was daunting to think about going after a guy like him in my state. No one wants an inexperienced, old loser.

I walked down the hallway, lowering my head as I passed him. He probably doesn’t even notice me, so why endure the agony of awkward eye contact.


I watched her pass, walking by as if I wasn’t there. Out of my peripheral, I saw her glance my way right before she put her head down.

Does she know how beautiful she is? Does she know that every time I walk down this hallway I hold my breath hoping she’s here?

I almost talked to her once. She was wearing a blue t-shirt with a small logo on the front right corner that I couldn’t read. But in all honesty I wasn’t trying to read it. All I wanted was for her to look my way. If she’d only look at me, notice me. I notice everything she does. I watch the way she stands, leaning against the wall with her legs crossed. Or when she sits crisscross applesauce on the floor, scribbling in her planner—of which is plastered with a rainbow of colorful coded writing.

I wonder what she does when she’s not in this hallway. What does she do with her free time, would she have any time for me? And she’s always wearing headphones. I don’t understand it. There’s actually a lot about her that I don’t understand. But there’s one thing I do understand. She’s a beautiful girl who doesn’t even know who I am. And I’d talk to her if I wasn’t such a wuss. I’ve had girlfriends, but they all asked me out first. How do I even begin to talk to her? Especially when she doesn’t even begin to compare to the other girls I’ve known?

I watched her go to the end of the hallway. Staring as she sits down against the wall and longing for her to look up. 

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