Dear stranger I am in love with
You don't know me, and how would you; for every time I muster the courage to go and say hello to you my knees buckle and my stomach threatens to lurch and don't even ask about the speed with which my heart begins to race, like it's in the final lapse of the F1. Thank god for my rib cage, otherwise I am pretty sure I wouldn't have a heart anymore. At least now you would know the reason for the constricted face I make when you smile at me when we pass each other in the corridors. I promise I am not acting like a bitch, I am just worried my heart doesn't jump out of my throat while doing somersaults. I am not sure if you are a stranger to me now, for I have seen all your pictures; from when you were a little boy dressed as a joker for fancy dress, to the time you rescued Ram Laddu (He sounds more like a halwai than a dog by the way), all the way to your graduation pictures. I remember all your statuses like they were asked in my board exams and have religiously browsed the comment section in each of your posts like it's relevant in national interest. It would be safe to say I tread on dangerous waters for you while stalking your instagram from 67 weeks ago. So we are not strangers anymore, at least not for me. I have already imagined all the possible circumstances life might put us in, how I might stumble on you sitting in a quaint cafe reading Murakami, when I am more confident and prettier and can finally call out your name casually like it's no big deal and even be bold enough to strike a conversation about why I think Norwegian Wood sells you short. And then we start dating and I can finally get to tell you how dreams actually come true sometimes.
But until then I can only gawk from afar and seethe with envy as the hot popular girls flirt with you like it's no big deal. Waiting for you to say hello, and praying for my tongue to not close in on me again.
You don't know me, and how would you; for every time I muster the courage to go and say hello to you my knees buckle and my stomach threatens to lurch and don't even ask about the speed with which my heart begins to race, like it's in the final lapse of the F1. Thank god for my rib cage, otherwise I am pretty sure I wouldn't have a heart anymore. At least now you would know the reason for the constricted face I make when you smile at me when we pass each other in the corridors. I promise I am not acting like a bitch, I am just worried my heart doesn't jump out of my throat while doing somersaults. I am not sure if you are a stranger to me now, for I have seen all your pictures; from when you were a little boy dressed as a joker for fancy dress, to the time you rescued Ram Laddu (He sounds more like a halwai than a dog by the way), all the way to your graduation pictures. I remember all your statuses like they were asked in my board exams and have religiously browsed the comment section in each of your posts like it's relevant in national interest. It would be safe to say I tread on dangerous waters for you while stalking your instagram from 67 weeks ago. So we are not strangers anymore, at least not for me. I have already imagined all the possible circumstances life might put us in, how I might stumble on you sitting in a quaint cafe reading Murakami, when I am more confident and prettier and can finally call out your name casually like it's no big deal and even be bold enough to strike a conversation about why I think Norwegian Wood sells you short. And then we start dating and I can finally get to tell you how dreams actually come true sometimes.
But until then I can only gawk from afar and seethe with envy as the hot popular girls flirt with you like it's no big deal. Waiting for you to say hello, and praying for my tongue to not close in on me again.
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