I know you never think about me, or if you do, I'm sure it's not in a positive light. I don't understand why I still think about you. When I walk by you on the way to the band room, my eyes fixed on the ground, the only thing I can think of is to not look at you, so you wouldn't see the naked hope in my eyes. I glance at you at lunch, feigning interest at something just over your head, so nobody will guess what I'm really looking at. I despise people for the simple fact that they can talk to you. It's been over a year since I talked to you, longer since you talked to me. Out loud, that is. In my head, we have wonderful conversations all the time.

I don't understand why I can't accept this; I know you don't like me. That morning when you shoved me aside - a simple, "excuse me" would have worked - I knew that I wasn't worth a waste of breath to you. But still my gaze lingered on your back.

I sit and watch you swim, and cringe as I know what I must look like to you - if you ever watched me - if you ever bothered - if you'd ever cared.

I see your car and I can't help my eyes from following. I shake my head to clear those thoughts . . . just because it's the right color, right shape, doesn't mean it's yours. But then I see his car behind you, and it's unmistakable, and I know, and I crumble a little more.

And I can't believe that I notice when you get a haircut, notice from 60 feet away that you got new clothes. Who took you shopping?

After a year, why can I still remember every detail of the week we spent together - if you call that together - it eats me up inside. I catch myself daydreaming about us, thinking any second you'll turn and see me, and the last year will just melt away - but then I catch myself and cut them off, angry. How can I think we would ever have a chance? It's not like I lack proof. By all rights, I should hate you. You destroyed me. But I can't. I want to hate you. After a year, I need to hate you. But all I feel is pathetic longing, like I could look at the back of your head forever.

Whenever I hear your name, I'll pretend I don't care, don't hear, but really my ears are straining, trying to hear any bit of anything about you that I can. And all these bits I file away, to savor later.

I don't know why I'm fooling myself like this. I can't help it. I wish I could just let you go. After all, it's been over a year (such a long time in my life) since you shoved me away, sent me reeling through the darkness of my mind.

And when I search within to find the hate for you that will set me free, the only hate I find is for myself.

Yours,