The bell rings, and as everyone hurries to leave and get to their next class, I sit quietly at my desk. It’s a graphic design class, and I should be doing what everyone else is doing. Seats are always hard to come by the first week of the semester, not to mention the first day of classes. But I can’t focus. Micah took this class last year. Same professor. Same room. Trying to listen to the lecture and syllabus for the semester, my mind has drifted the entire time, wondering what seat he had.

It’s been three days since I dropped off the letter.

When I got home, I told Yesenia that I dropped it off. I was still nervous about doing it, and she must’ve been able to tell because she didn’t say anything, simply giving me a supportive hug, letting me know again she was here if I needed to talk.

The first thing I told him was something I’m not sure he knew. I knew him in high school, but we were properly introduced at a bonfire after we graduated. When I saw him around school, I thought he was cute, but when I met him at the bonfire, that’s when I started to crush on him.

And the letter just escalated from there. Talking about times during our first semester I saw him, and even though I wasn’t sure if he was dating anyone, I never dared to speak more than a couple of words to him because of how insecure I was. I am. How if I went to his gym, I’d take a hoodie in case he was there so he couldn’t tell who I was but I could see him. I know, stalker much?

Then when the second semester rolled around, I told him how I thought I was finally working up enough courage to talk to him. Not to ask him out, but just try to have a fully functioning conversation with him. That’s when I saw him with Lana. I hadn’t seen him with her much the semester before, but I remembered them together back in high school. I told him I thought she was perfect for him. Not too short, a slim, athletic figure that seemed to go hand-in-hand with his. I could daydream all I want about him, but I wrote that I’d never be as good of a match for him as her.

But then he kissed me.

Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to write as much as I did. I thought I’d get out a few words and crumple up the paper, never giving it to him. Or, if I was able to put together enough words to tell him how I felt, I thought it’d be a paragraph. Maybe two, at the most. I didn’t expect it to be eight pages, all written on lined notebook paper. I guess I had a lot more to say about my feelings than I thought.

I told him how he made me feel in the beginning. When he kissed me, or when he took my hand as we walked through the street fair that first night. Even the night we had sex and the next day when he told me he loved me. I told him I believed him then and I still believe him. But the most important part was to tell him that when I’m with him, I believe his words. I believe I’m beautiful, and sexy, and wanted. But they’re like a shield. A force-field that blocks out all my negative feelings about myself, but it’s only for a limited time. Because when I leave his arms, I’m thrown back right into the real world. And in the real world, girls like me don’t get guys like him.

It reminded me of my discussion with Sofia. How I was telling her she was wrong about the same insecurities I was feeling. And I didn’t feel like I was lying, but when the conversation was over, I didn’t know how to believe them myself.

I told him so many things that I thought it was too much. That he’d read it—after waking from fainting over the number of pages in the envelope—and that it’d be over. We’d be over.

But then he called me that night. And I ignored his call. He texted me. And I ignored that, too.

I don’t know what he wanted to tell me, but I told him I wasn’t done. I’d written so much, but I ended it telling him I still needed time. I need to get a grip on this and that there’s something else I need to say to him. I want to be with him. I want to know he’s my future and that I’m his. But I don’t know how to actively pursue that future and at the same time, fight off every insecurity I feel after I leave his arms.

So I asked him for time. Time I don’t even think I deserve because who tells someone they want to be with them but asks them to wait without telling them how long. A week? A month? Why would he wait for me when girls are lusting over him on a daily basis? And there are the worries again, flooding through me like an avalanche.

I finally make my way outside. My next class isn’t for an hour, so I asked Cindy to meet me at the café. As soon as I walk in, I see her waving at me. I’m about to wave back when I see Micah and Taylor walk in on the opposite side. Spinning around, I hurry to a restroom. As I scurry over to it, I duck my head between my shoulders, staring at the ground, hoping he doesn’t see me.

Getting inside, I lean against the door, feeling hopeless. We aren’t broken up. Estranged, sure, but he’s still my boyfriend. Why am I acting like this? He obviously wants to talk about what I wrote, or he wouldn’t have called and messaged me. But I’m not ready. I need to get the last part out of me.

I feel the door push against me, and I step out of the way.

“What are you doing?” Cindy asks, walking inside.

Moving over to the wall, I cross my arms and hang my head. “I saw Micah behind you. I can’t see him right now.”

“He saw you.” She sounds perplexed.

“He did?” I cover my face.

“Yes. What’s wrong? He asked me if I thought you wanted to end things. He says you haven’t returned his calls.”

I haven’t told Cindy about the letter. Only Yesenia knows I gave it to him. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you want to break up?”

“No, I don’t want to break up. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. I gave him this long letter, basically telling him how I felt when we got together and these last couple months, and how I’ve always just felt like a side dish and never the main entrée with him.”

“You did?” She cringes, making my embarrassment rise.

“Yes! And I told him I don’t want to break up, but I still need time, and I have to figure everything else out.” I expect her to counter my arguments like she’s done in the past. To tell me I’m wrong or give me some kind of pep talk, but she doesn’t. She takes a step closer, wrapping an arm around me, nodding. “Did he … was he upset right now when he saw me?”

“No, not really. He just seemed confused.”

“Is he still out there?”

She shakes her head. “He left. He said to tell you he wants to talk.”

Letting out a long breath, I nod. I know we need to talk. But I have to get these fears of my future out, too. And I need to do it soon.