I’m on the verge of flunking this subject, yet I still found time to toss that aside and think of you.
I think about everything I’ve been through, and the things that led to you.
And then it hit me.
Did I ever mean anything to you?
I’ve thought about it—reasons. All possible detrimental reasons to stop this—to stop feeling like this, to stop making a fool out of myself. I’ve thought about every ridiculous thing to convince myself to just give it up. But it amounted to nothing. Wala eh. I’m still hoping. I’m still hoping everything you did in the past actually meant something, that it’s not just me reading too much into them, that overanalyzing them wasn’t a waste. And that you’re just as scared as I am. And that we are a lot alike. And that I cross your mind every now and then. And that sometimes you wonder about me. And that you’re thinking about these things too. And that sometimes you miss me like I miss you.
And that you love me like I love you.