He Got Relief. I Got Baggage.

This is why I can’t have nice things. Because of me.

Street Art by Sunra

I have my first authentic crush.

Not a rebound-infatuation-thing (which I’ve had twice).

Not an I-don’t-live-here-so-this-can’t-go-anywhere-so-it’s-safe-thing. (Also twice).

I have a butteryflies-in-my-stomach-wonder-if-you’re-thinking-about-me-cause-I’m-thinking-about-you-all-the-time-but-I-won’t-say-anything-thing.

I think if I passed him a note in 4th-grade arithmetic that asked if he liked me, I am pretty sure he would check the “Yes” box.

This would be a great way to start anything. I like him. He, presumably, likes me. According to the face value, it seems easy enough.

Well, if there’s anything we’ve learned in adulthood, it’s that face value is fucking wrong.

I’ve been jogging. A lot. I retired from jogging this summer. Yet, over the last week I do it without knowing. Not only that, I do it with ease. Uphill. Never short of breath. I know what you’re thinking, stick with me. This is what happens:

I think about my crush.

My chest gets really tight.