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It was a Wednesday. The air was thick with anticipation and the brand new leaves were flirting with one another as the breeze breathed a lengthy sigh; you are my Springtime. You’re the colors I haven’t seen since last year. You’re the longer-lasting days. You’re the new, the fresh, the familiar, the uncharted.

Part of me is scared, though. Part of me feels like a loose cannon because I’m hearing the words I’m saying to you and I know that I’m starting to open up to you. The problem here is that I want to be known, but not too known... seen, but not too seen. I’m not necessarily afraid of getting hurt, I’m afraid of hurting you.

(I’ve decided to number the days so I can keep track of how long I’ve held on, how long I’ve allowed myself to feel that breeze that I’ve craved since before I can remember.)


You’re charming and witty and warm and the most thoughtful. You’re a walking piñata of whimsy. You’re a hopeless romantic and you look beyond adorable in a beanie. But, I’m terrified that I’m too guarded and that you’ll fall faster than me and I’ll end up spending months on end trying to play catch-up.

But here I am in my kitchen eating leftover sushi at two in the morning and can’t fall asleep for the life of me because tonight you were my first kiss and your smell is still on my clothes and your voice is still ringing in my head from an hour ago when you told me how cute you thought I was.

Maybe I will catch up.