He doesn't know I exist. We have known each other for going on six years now, but all he's ever said to me is “Hey.” Once. When we were younger my eyes passed over him as they did every other boy. Boys were gross back then, and definitely not something to be “liked.” But then I grew up, and so did he. We both shot up, but he shot up faster. No longer was I the tallest person in the class. Now he was. He filled out, retaining the skinnyness but losing the gangly awkwardness that had taunted him for years. His voice was a quiet baritone that always made my heart beat faster when I heard it. He was the only one that could match me in class debates, and we would exchange verbal jabs about one world war or another, but never anything beyond the classroom. I've tried to speak to him, but he is too far outside my regular social circles. Out of fear of the possibilities I avoid him.

I've loved him from afar since childhood, but he doesn't even know I exist.

*


She doesn't know I exist. We've know each other for about 6 years now and all I've ever gotten the courage to say to her is “Hey.” I didn't notice her for years but at the end of one summer our heights were even, and she had turned into, well, a girl. I could never speak to her of course. She was always with her friends laughing and sharing inside jokes. There was no room for a newcomer there, and besides, I had my own group of mundane and dull friends, though the girls spent most of the time belittling her friends for their laughter and apparent happiness. Her laugh would echo across the room and hearing it would make my heart jump and start thumping. She was a master debater and I lived for the days when we would argue across the classroom about whatever insignificant war we had been studying. I want to speak to her. I want to know her, make her laugh and love her for all the world to see.

I love her, but she doesn't even know I exist.