It’s crazy how you can know someone so well; absolutely crazy. And it’s even crazier how in love you can be with someone without them noticing.








How could he not see the way I look at him? I am his best friend, after all. Shouldn’t he notice things like that? He knows everything about me; almost has much as I know about him. Not only have we completely grown up together, but we’re also all each other have. His dad is…never around, and my parents are flakes. He and I spend ever holiday together, every birthday; everything important and not.

On the Fourth of July he would buy one firework, the biggest he could find, and then after we let it fly, we would watch The Patriot while eating burnt popcorn, because he always cooks it for too long. On Thanksgiving—after the quiet forced and formal dinner apart with our parents—we would go down to the local bistro and order two turkey sandwiches (with mayo). On Easter we would make hard-boiled eggs and have a food fight with them in his back yard; letting his German Shepherd clean up after us.
His favorite movie is Never Back Down, and his favorite television show is How I Met Your Mother. Green is his favorite color. He can play twenty of my favorite songs on his old guitar—though he would never tell you. His eyes are the same dark blue as his father’s; their only real similarity in my opinion. He would never let anyone see him cry (except for me, of course). He loves to argue about the world—as if it has revealed itself to him. His little sister is a lot like him: beautiful. He loves her more than he will admit. To him the world is black and white; no grey areas. He can see through peoples’ lies, their masks, and their excuses.












If only he could see through me. I know how obvious I am, despite my best efforts, but he—the guy who sees through everyone—can’t see the poorly hidden truth in my eyes.
On Christmas, we buy each other a present, bake deformed gingerbread men, and eat them while watching A Charlie Brown Christmas on DVD.
If you asked me if I love him, I’d lie to you.
I’m seating in the passenger seat of his car—my second home since sophomore year— watching the sunlight catch every color in his eyes. He’s telling me about his night with his dad (not so happily). He swears he’ll never fall in love, I laugh with a silent hope that he’s wrong. We talk and joke, going about our day, but every moment he seems to take my breath away.
To say I don’t love him would be…an obvious lie.