“Crush” is too weak a word to describe how I feel. It doesn’t do you justice, but maybe it
works for me. I am the one who is crushed. I’m crushed that we have only ever regarded each
other as enemies. I’m crushed when the day ends and I haven’t said anything to you that isn’t
cloaked in five layers of sarcasm. I’m crushed, concluding this year without having known
that you like melancholy music or eat cream cheese straight from the tub in the middle of
the night or play with your bangs when you’re nervous, as though you’re worried they look
bad. (They never do.)
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