I spend the night, trying to imagine: Kissing? Love? Making out in hallways? But all of these terms are meaningless to me, I am a slab of dough, drab, dull, bland. What I really want is not a person, but a feeling or aura, something fiery, iridescent, hard and beautiful. A jewel pressed against my beating heart. I am so desperate, my eyes scream every time I see you, trying to convince me that you are the most radiant thing in this school. When you high-five me in PE for running the mile in 6:30, I try to make myself lightheaded (though I already am) and then replay the moment for one shining week after, creating false scenarios where I become giddy and kiss you, or I am overcome with such longing that I begin to cry. Of course, none of this will ever happen. I am dead, grey, unfeeling, plodding through life without reason. Suddenly I am angry. I want to kick something, make it miserable as I am. I look outside and see the half-baked school football field. It is quilted with weeds that have unnaturally bright yellow flowers. Dandelions.

The months pass by, and nothing changes, I tell my friends that I love you. Maybe if they believe me, I will begin to believe too. Life is horrible without you. I can’t live without you. The only thing I want in the world is for you to love me back. Lies. I keep good grades, practice violin like a good little girl, and play tennis five times a week. I am a robot. I am not-living.

Winter is still here, but officially, it’s spring. I come across a dandelion, (even though I haven’t seen one since August) it is seeding, little umbrellas ready to twirl in the damp air for a few feet. I stop walking, and pick the hollow, wilting stem. I blow, remembering childhood delights as the seeds stick to my jeans.

It is March, the month of your birthday (mine too). I will become a teenager, soon to arrive at the life-altering age of thirteen. Maybe after my birthday I will go shopping and buy one of those miniskirts that I have never dared to wear before. Maybe you will notice me after your birthday, wearing a miniskirt. Maybe you will ask me out. Maybe I will tell you that I love you, even though it’s not true. How pitiful.

My violin teacher tells me to put emotion into the gypsy piece I am playing. I want to tell him that I don’t have emotions, that I am dead. Instead, I raise the violin to my shoulder and try to love you with my music.

I want to start a garden, so I am chauffeured to the McClendon’s gardening center, where I hand pick the healthiest, most vibrant plants that I can find, and watch as my mom stands at the check-out, wallet in hand. Later that day, I dig holes, massage root-bound lumps of warm soil, and push plants into the ground. I am exhausted. Then I remember that I have forgotten to daydream about you.

The radio suddenly intrigues me. I listen to songs of love, loss, anger. Stations I have never considered listening to before. I begin to hear lyrics in my mind. I am submerged, riveted by the words that fill me. I think of myself living in the waves of the radio, giving you the passion that I hear.

Summer weather begins, but I am still stuck at school. The best part of my day is PE. I feign love for you, imagining that I am running for you when we do laps. I watch as your gym shorts bounce up and down. I giggle at my friend as she tells me that you should pull your shorts up. I tell her that I love you the way you are, shorts and all.

Someday, maybe you will read this. Someday, maybe, I’ll forget you. Someday, maybe, it won’t matter.