I miss you.
Which is funny, because we never actually met. You, after all, is just a stranger with a very pretty face. The latest in the continuously growing subject list for my reverie.
But hey, we’re in the era of interconnectivity. It is easy – far too easy – to pick up social cues from the net and construct a person’s identity. A mere facet of that person, true, but a coherent identity nonetheless.
And I like what I see.
(As for what I don’t see
yet, well, filling those gaps with sprinkles of imagination isn’t exactly a hard work.)
So I, probably, possibly, am falling for the image of you.
The you that feels so familiar but still elusively intriguing. The you that maybe just an interlocked fingers away but always evade my outstretched hand. The you that I’m crushing on like a school girl but perched for like a vixen.
And yeah, I miss you.
Because you – unknowingly – makes my days brighter. And I long for the day I could actually tug at your hand just to say “You’re cute” right to your face. The day where you think of me the same way I think of you. And the day when I finally found home in your arms.
Until then, my dear stranger, you’re just a daydream away, as always.
Tell you wha, though.
I quite like having you there.
Because in that phantasm, you and I are meant to be.
À la mort,
Overactive imagination and inherent weakness for strangers with a pretty face is not a good combination. Especially when you’re a fangirl.