Every single day, it's the same routine. I come in, sit down, make everybody laugh, and then I scoot back and enter the world of my words. I think everyone knows what I'm talking about. I think everybody understands writing to escape.

I'm assuming again.

I'm just coming up with disjointed thoughts... no wait, this is Whose Army. The one I'm not making up. The one that's not as disjointed and is also based on reality.

And there you are. Mocking me. This was two years ago, these things I'm talking about. Coming in, making everyone laugh, staring at you from across the room. Two years have passed since that. I guess this is just as manufactured as my disjointed thoughts.

But somehow it's making sense to say it.

That class taught me it was okay to know where your talents lie. That it doesn't make you an arrogant dick to go, "oh, I'm actually pretty good at this." It taught me that humility is a virtue, just not to the extent that you lie about your own talents and abilities.

And it informed me that I was kind of a coward. Every day that year I would come in, and I would wish that I were next to you, talking. Getting to know you. Because you were so cute and so funny and so completely wonderful. I assumed.

And I was me! It doesn't get much better than that.

Basically, we'd be perfect together, I was sure of it.

And then I'd just sit there and watch you, knowing how this would end. I was never going to talk to you, or get to know you, or fall in love with you. Because I was me. And, like I said, I was kind of a coward.

It's funny to think about that and then look back on the way things changed in the last year. I don't even know how we came so far in such a short time.

But look, it's the end of the page.