This is a selfish letter, the kind I shouldn't write and shouldn't send, and I apologize for it. I'm going to apologize for a lot of other things, too, because you deserve an apology, even if you don't know it.I want to clear the air. There were days when that's all I wanted, desperately, and I couldn't do it. I know you understand that feeling more perfectly then I could express, and so I don't have to tell you what it's like. What I'll tell you is how I've dreamt of doing it.

It'd be another one of those awkward moments we have, like when we're both sitting in your car, idling, filling up the silence with stories that don't say anything. All I'd have to say is "You know, I figured out how you manage to stay friends with all those girls you've confessed your love to."

You'd look interested; you'd ask me why. And I'd say: "Because they already know."

In my dream, I'd be smiling at you, and you'd give me this scared look. And I'd be scared, too, but I wouldn't show it, I'd just lean over and kiss you, and you'd kiss back.

You know I'd never do it, especially now that I've written it down. It seems silly in words --just a stupid fantasy. All I can do is write this letter, and maybe send it. I don't know how else to tell you.

I fell for you hard, a long time ago: before you left for college, before you even graduated high school. I'm not much older than you but I thought it made me smarter, thought I should know better. I tried to talk myself out of it: I told myself you weren't my type, that you only were nice to me because you just wanted to be close to somebody, anybody. I pushed you towards someone who was immature, mean, and, I think, not good enough for you --like me.

Then you left for school, and took yourself out of my life. For almost two years I thought it was over, just a passing crush, the kind of thing that happens to me all the time.

And then you came home one Christmas and, suddenly, I knew it wasn't.

You are more like me than anyone I know. You do the things I see myself doing; you wander off alone just when I'm thinking about how I'd love to get away from the crowd we're in. I understand that when you sigh, you want me to ask what's wrong, even if I already think I know. I know because it's what I'm thinking, it's the question I'd want asked --it's ended up that way enough times to prove it.

No, you aren't my type. I fall for a different guy every month, and sometimes it lasts, and sometimes it doesn't. I'm fickle, I'm foolish, I'm attracted to long-haired skinny guys who think they know it all and fake it when they don't. I write a love poem every week and hell, no, they aren't all about you. But some of them are.

You are water and soft hands and romance, and you know what I'm like because you're like me. And you know I've never liked me very much.

And that's why I never thought this could be real.

Yes, I dream about your body. I think that you are attractive and desirable and there are many things I'd like to do for you, things I'd like to show you. You seem to have a sense of self-control that keeps you innocent of so many things, and I dream, selfishly, about being the one who makes you lose that.

Yet I'm still satisfied with my other dreams of you --maybe it's your own innocence that does it, I don't know. All I understand is that when I hear you singing to the car radio, my heart floats up into my throat so I can hardly speak; I love the sound of your voice and the way you don't care who hears you.

I remember, this summer, sitting down on a bench at the high school with you and leaning back into your arms, feeling you pull me close to your body, and just closing my eyes and holding on to that one moment, so hard. And maybe you remember, too, how I got up, flashed you a smile, and found something important to say to my boyfriend.

It's part of the reason that I encouraged you to chase Kristin. I wanted her to fall for you so we'd both have a reason keeping us apart, so it wouldn't be my fault --so I'd be hurting the same way I thought you were. Yet I really did believe that she liked you, and I still do. I wouldn't have lied to you about something so important.

I can't stand hiding from it anymore, Brian. I'll use your real name because that's what makes it real; I can write all the poetry I want and still pretend it's not about you, I can even kiss someone else and pretend I'm in love, but once your name rolls off my lips, it can't stay a dream.

I'm a coward. I wouldn't leave the security I have for you, even though I know you're lonely, even though I think I have a chance, maybe more than a chance. You've caught me second-guessing myself before and you'll catch me at it again, right here, afraid that by taking one step towards you, I throw away six years of my life that I might want back someday.

I'm a coward because I won't leave him, and I won't send this; I'll mail it off to some website that specializes in publicizing the personal, and I'll make up another fantasy, one where you read this letter and know it's me, and then...

And then what? I don't even know.

S.