One day I'll look up and meet your eye when you're staring, instead of pretending that I was looking the other way. But it's not today.
Because today, my heart still skips a beat, fluttering like bird's wings in my chest, and my eyes cannot help what they do, but look away, afraid that you might see the stilted pulse racing through me. Why I'm afraid, I cannot quite answer, except to say that I feel like a ghost in a world full of real people, drifting, brushing lightly past, but never making a real dent. Admitting the effect you have on me would be to let you pull me into reality. If you smiled back, if you took my hand, if you kissed me or touched me or loved me, then I too would be real. And being real hurts. People learn to rub you out so that you eventually fade. I could not bear the pain of becoming solid only to melt back into ghostliness.