I have tried and tired of unrequited love. I will no longer swoon over boys who do not glance at me. I have decided to be a lover, unrequiting.

I want catch a look in a friend’s eyes and notice when they look away. I want to smile and watch as they blush.

I want to tell the raunchiest jokes I know to make them squirm. I want someone to laugh too loudly at the terrible jokes I’ve stolen from the most boring teachers. I want to make a person like a movie they barely remember, because we talked all through it.

I want to know someone who thinks more of me than I ever will of them. I want to shake my head and roll my eyes and indulge this little affection and tell my friends that I feel bad when really, I don’t.

I want someone to run their fingers through my hair. I want someone to remember when they touched me, when they were closest to me, every time we’re apart. And I don’t want to feel it at all.

I want to be the one to shatter their heart and the friend who helps them pick up the pieces. I want to bite my lip and wait for a text message, hoping we can still be friends.

Because in the end, I get this: I get to be the whirlwind in the middle of the empty plains. I get to be a story to tell a crying, love-sick child years later. I get to be the one who got away.

If I cannot be a love, even forgotten, I will be the most dazzling unlover you will always remember.