From Our Readers: Because I Write About Every Guy I Like

For the first time, I felt like I'm claiming something I never owned, wasn't supposed to, but felt the guts to grab it—my feelings towards you. I've been juggling worries and masks all month long, looking like nothing but a fool.

In Math class, I told myself you weren't part of the equation I tried to answer. But whenever I asked why, it equates to you. In geography, I found a secure place with distance as my friend. You were miles away yet my heart yearned for a bus ticket to trace back the road and follow you. In English class, I stuttered my way through my speech because all I told were lies. I did not speak of your name to try to erase my mistakes, but I ended up with a blank page. My hand held the pen and owned it. I wrote your initials. In History class, the teacher spoke about the records of the past and how some people changed the world. Ideas became inventions and rocks to magnificent structures, a stroke of a brush to an art painting then I wondered. If I spoke a little louder, can I divide a state, unite a nation, break a law, be heard and lose a voice? If a drop of an apple can shift the course of the world, does admitting to myself I like you start a history? Because like the apple, I fell.

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