I haven’t seen you in months, but every time I walk outside, I’m terrified. I feel nerves buzz in the palms of my hands and a tingling shivers down my spine. I’m worried that when I see you I will forget how to breathe or my legs will stop working properly. You’ll send my body into shock. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be constantly scanning the crowd for the familiar spike of hair or the leather jacket you insisted made you look cool? I feel the weight of the possibility of your presence every time I walk outside. I haven’t seen you in months, and I don’t know whether I want that to change or not.
— Excerpt from a book I’ll never write