I don't know where it started—the intriguing thoughts of him sprouting in my mind. I hate it: my eyes wandering searching for his. I hate it: the intense feeling in my stomach slowly creeping its way out whenever he comes in. My clothes feel uncomfortable, my hair looks disheveled, is my posture all right? I need to be perfect (It's an urge that echoes through my body). I hate it—at the same time—I don't. A conflicting matter—one of too many that drowns my thoughts with questions that scream: 'What is this? Is this love? Or is it just an honest appeal to be noticed by someone—by him!' I despise it—so much that I consider it a fleeting fixation; hoping it would stop.
If I ever tried to describe him in one sentence, it will still be too many—each word describing his flaws and inconsistency. His talents will fill the front page of the paper where I'll write. Admiration will fill its back. In that paper, I won't call him a 'crush' but someone whom I admire, with flaws that I have come to accept.
Maybe it's because he's loud? Loud yet many take his words above all else. No! Is it because no matter how boastful he'll become, he has evidence to back up his claims (which by the way, he never is—boastful). Or maybe the way he never filters his words. How does one make it stop?
Funny—I like him. Really.
I once heard him say that I am so pretty—it made me so giddy that I was hopping down the stairs.