She doesn’t know that I spend every moment thinking about the next time I’m going to see you, or that the high point of my day is when you walk past me in the corridor on your way to the staff room at break. She doesn’t know how disappointed I feel if I don’t see you, or if I see you and you don’t smile at me. She doesn’t know how I couldn’t concentrate on what you were saying the other day when we sat together at your desk, because all I could think about was howclose you were – so close, at one point, that your leg touched mine. I didn’t move a muscle in case it broke the contact, and when you moved your leg, I couldn’t concentrate then, either, because I was too busy wondering if you’d moved on purpose. She doesn’t know that sometimes I look at your mouth when you’re talking and I imagine kissing you. That I want to do it so much I’m scared in case one day I forget myself and just do it, anyway. She doesn’t know that I have never, not once, not even silently, admitted any of these thoughts before, even in my head.
—  Liz Kessler - Read me like a book