Letters To Ida

four

To Ida,

I wish you would notice me sitting a few tables away from you. I'm reading the book you were reading a few days ago. It's really good. Then again, your books always are.

I wish you would smile at me. Acknowledge that I actually exist. Or maybe I don't exist. Who knows? Not me.

I don't have the guts to talk to you. I'm a total wimp. I'm that kid who gets his underwear stolen at summer camp while he's asleep and wakes up to find them in place of the American flag on the flagpole. (True story.) I'm that awkward guy with braces and loose socks that don't fit snugly around the ankles. No one really talks to me, and I guess that's okay.

I like to be by myself anyway.

And listen to the sweet wind blow through the trees. Or read one of your books and smile even though there is no one around to notice. I like waking up early to the smell of burnt coffee beans from the cafe down the street and scarfing down a doughnut at 5:37 A.M. even on the weekends.

Sure, I like being alone, but I don't like being lonely

But, when I look at you, I get this weird fluttering in the pit of my stomach. It's not the usual Butterflies of Nervousness, unless the butterflies have suddenly turned into a death metal band, in which case, yes, it totally feels like butterflies.

But, like, death metal band butterflies. Very hardcore.

When my heart races every time you glance up or turn around, it is similar to the feeling of the medicine the doctor gives you when you can't breathe because yes, you got bronchitis again, that wakes you up at midnight when you thought it was 5:37 in the morning and time for a doughnut.

(And then your mom asks you why you are up so late on a school night, and then you see what the real time is, and you both stare at you clad in your pajamas, shivering, cold, and confused in an awkward silence.) Except maybe the cold air is just from the vent I'm sitting under and not you. Or maybe I have bronchitis again.

I keep hoping that you will take one tiny little glance at me and maybe your heart would race like you had the bronchitis medicine and your butterflies would jam out to the sound of punk rock nerves.

When I look at you, even for a split second, I can imagine not being so alone. And I love it.

I haven't even spoken one word to you, and you're driving me insane.

I'm scared that you won't be anything like I imagine you to be.

From, 

Rio