Yet another letter

If you knew I was writing all of these letters to you, would you be flattered? Or would you go running for the hills?

I'd bet the latter. That's why each letter gets its own throwaway account. But I just can't stop writing them. I'm crazy for you. Possibly literally. For a year now, I've thought about you every single day. And we're not talking about just an idle thought popping into my head here and there. I mean, like, I can't work. I can't sleep. I can't function. Because I'm overwhelmed with thoughts of you. Wondering what you're up to. Wondering what you're thinking of. Wondering what you like to eat. Wondering what you like to read. What shows you watch. Wondering if you ever wonder the same things about me. Wondering if that's a special smile just for me that I get, or if it's the same one you show everyone (either way it melts me every damn time). Wondering if you still love your husband. Wondering why you're so close that at any given moment I could be by your side within minutes - seconds if I tried hard enough - and yet so impossibly far away. What universe does that to a person?

I mean ok fine, I know it's not correct to say that I love you. I don't know you well enough for that. But this is something. And it's hot. And it sure as hell doesn't seem like it's going away anytime soon. And I think we'd be fooling ourselves if we didn't admit that at least the potential for love exists, if only things were… different.

I know the right thing for me to do is to give it up. Give you up. You aren't available. Fuck. I'm not available. And maybe one day I'll be able to. In the meantime, I'll just keep writing these letters to you in the vain hope that you'll come across one, put two and two together, and…

run for the hills, probably.