Or, maybe you do realize. Maybe you're ignoring it to spare my feelings. How could I not get that? God, I can be so stupid. It was unbelievably stupid to let myself do this anyway. You clearly have more than your share of admirers already. Why add my name to the list? I should go find some pathetic nerd-boy or some lonely wallflower with shaggy hair and bad clothes to pair up with. It's like a dance. Everyone has someone to dance with. I get to choose from what's left. Why didn't I just remind myself of that in the first place?

I don't even know if it's a sexual thing. Does it matter? I guess it does, to me. I don't know if you've noticed, but I have a hard time making friends. If this is just an overly intense reaction to someone-anyone-showing me something more than disdain or frightened acquiescence, well then, there's no reason for any of this ridiculous teen angst bullshit anymore, is there?

If only I weren't me and you weren't you. If only you knew who I really am. I mean, yeah, I'm totally committed to school and achieving and everything-that part of what you already know is true. But did you ever think about who I might be beyond what you've seen? Did you ever think about what I do when I'm at home most nights, the way I dress when I'm on my own, where I go and what I do when I'm not busy being who they all need me to be? Did you? No, you didn't. Of course you didn't. Why should you? Why should you care? Sure, we're friends, but we're not really friends, not like you and that girl from your little town.

Tristan's back in town, did you know that? I saw him at the bookstore. I was browsing, he was waiting, undoubtedly for one of his unending posse of brainless slut-girls. He asked me about you. How you were. What should I have said? "Back off, bitch, she's mine." You aren't mine. You never will be mine. I said you were fine, as far as I knew, but how was I supposed to know? Maybe I was overly defensive. He didn't suspect anything, though. No one does. No one ever will. Least of all you.

I wouldn't ever risk what we have, as tentative and precarious as it is, not simply for the chance of actually getting what I really want for once. I'll find myself some lonely nerd. I'll find myself some lonely wallflower. And in the meantime, you'll stay around because I won't give you a reason not to. I admire you, Rory. Did you know that? It's true. I admire everything you do, everything you have, everything you are. Maybe one day you'll find a reason to admire me. Maybe one day there'll actually be a reason.

I know I'm intense. I know I can be frightening. People think I'm unaware of the way I am, but they're completely wrong. What I am is what I have to be. It's what I've always been. I don't care if 99.9 percent of the student body thinks I'm a cast-iron bitch with a gigantic chastity belt underneath my uniform. I just want the .1 percent who doesn't think that to be you.

You always remind me of a quote from one of my favorite movies. You're a fan of films, aren't you? So you must have heard of Hal Hartley, right? I think he'd be right up your alley. Maybe one day I'll get up the courage to tell you that. Anyway, the quote goes like this. They're having a discussion. The guy says, "I respect and admire you." The girl asks him, "Is that love?" And he says, "No, that's respect and admiration."

I don't know. Is it really love? I really wouldn't know the difference. But I think it is. It doesn't matter anyway.

I don't know how to close this. Another letter I won't send. So there's the answer to the question you wouldn't think to ask: this is what I do when I'm not slamming information into my head. I sit here in this coffee shop in the middle of downtown Hartford, in a dark back booth, listening to Liz Phair and filling this notebook with letters you'll never read. But it's time to close the book now. It's time to walk outside. It's time to write a letter to someone who would be happy to find it in their mailbox.

I loved you. I love you. But don't worry. It's over.

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