200 words. Exactly 200 words to express how my chest twists when I think about speaking to you, and my throat tightens when I actually manage it. My stomach turns into warm, melted wax, and my legs become clouds, evading my command. Your eyes hold my attention with their curiosity and intuition. You share your words carefully, posing complex questions and intricate concepts that force me to listen. Your smile turns me red.
I tell myself I’m intelligent and brave, but I’m not shrewd enough to speak to you, and not courageous enough to try. I’m terrified to mention that I care, because I could make it awkward enough that I would avoid you, and in all honestly, the chance to continue spending lunch in English, like you do, trumps you on my priorities list. Nevertheless, I regret not telling you this, because it shows more cowardice that anything.
I hope I didn’t frighten you by stabbing myself in the sappy emotional guts and letting it spill out all over you. I couldn’t find a way to tell you, so I gave myself a word count. 200 words to explain heartache and immaturity. To explain desperation and hope. 200 words.