“You don’t want me to smile at you?” he asks, a confused expression strewn across his face. “No,” I say sharply. “I don’t. I don’t want you to smile at me like you like me. I don’t want you to sit next to me in class. I don’t want you to hold my hand. I don’t want you to flirt with me. I don’t even want you to buy me lunch, but I’m too hungry to really care about that one right now.”
