Dear C,
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Six years. Six years of you watching me dance because something just pulls you to me, six years of your brown eyes and your goofy laugh, and your compliments, six years of constant dreams, and your hand in mine, and that damn smile you give me that makes me fall a little further each time I look at you. But you like her.
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The girl with the long dark hair and the dirty jokes and the tight dresses. The girl you only know because of me (yeah, that freaking stings). She's not personable or affectionate, and let me just say that I don't think you'd ever last because she'd get bored of that beautiful smile and the spark in your eyes. She'd enjoy you at first, your tanned skin and strong arms, she'd enjoy you being hers, but it'd all grow old fast as it does with most girls like her, and soon you'd no longer be hers, and a whole lot of your time would've been wasted on a girl who only saw you as a warm body.
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Why her? Why her older sister? Why the girl with the aggravating laugh and wide smile? Why any of them when you could have me? Because I'd love you for your humor and your eyes, while they'd love you for your body, I'd text you good morning and hug you from behind and play with your hair while they'd yank off your shirt and kiss you hard, and allow your hands to linger just a little longer than they should.
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Are precarious girls just your 'type'? The tight-dress-Instagram-model-look-older-than-they-are girls? Because if that's the case, then that explains everything. I'm not anything like them.
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Did you know that for two months, I slept with your note next to my bed? I know it wasn't a romantic message or anything, but it was friendly and cute, and I liked to trace the uneven letters and search for something that didn't exist between the poorly punctuated sentences. I'd refold the creases and press a kiss to the paper because it's something that was, at one point or another, in your hands, belonging to you. Pathetic as it sounds, that's as close as I could get to you because no matter how hard I try, you're just simply unattainable, and that note reminded me that for at least two minutes of your time, you were thinking about me.
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I'd like to say I could think about you and be satisfied because I'm maybe a little bit in love with you, even though I wish I didn't have to be, but the only emotions I can associate with you are complete and utter confusion and anger; fits of rough, hurt fury, raw and painful and driven by six years of mixed messages, and poorly misconstrued eye contact and smiles.
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Because I can't figure you out for the life of me.
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You somehow know my birthday (though I never told it to you) and love my younger brothers; you can identify my dancing form on a blurry screen and have these real genuine discussions with me. But you run right back to her. You actually dropped as low as forgetting my name, as if six years of whatever back-and-forth game we're playing never existed.
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You called me Emma.
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That's far from my name.
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But you wouldn't forget Isabella, or Ellie, or Nyomi, or Kendra. The girls with the long wavy hair and curved figures; with the perfect smiles and high-pitched laughs. You only forgot me because I'm just perfectly forgettable. I'm not like them.
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And it breaks my heart a little bit more every time I see you with her; every time I build up the hope that maybe we could be more than two people passing in the hallway, you make me regret even thinking about you. And it makes me want to cry and scream at you because why can't you see that it's been me for the past six years?! I've been the one to laugh at your jokes, to wish you good luck, and to watch from the wings praying for your success. It's always been me! But you're just too absorbed in everyone else, absorbed in yourself and your giant ego, to stop and even consider the reserved girl with the gentle nervous smile and quiet voice, hazel eyes, and curly brown hair, who watches as you tease with all the other girls like you're the greatest thing to hit the female teenage population.
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And that hurts more than anything.
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Soon you'll be out of high school, off to a college across the country, and I'll mourn every neglected opportunity. And maybe I'll never see you again, and I'll find another guy who'll love me and hold me and look at me like I'm the moon and stars and everything beyond.
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But you'll always be the first boy to break my heart (over and over and over again).
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Thanks a lot for six years of making me laugh, sob, grin, and scream.
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I love you.
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Xoxo,
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The girl you so easily forget about.
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