I was jealous. Ridiculous. I wanted her to know me; I wanted her to talk to me. And I felt it then: this strange, inexplicable sense that she might be the only person in the world I could really care about. I force myself to sit up. I hazard a glance at the notebook still clutched in my hand. I lost her. She hates me. She hates me and I repulse her and I might never see her again, and it is entirely my own doing.
