I confessed my love to you on the first of August. The moon was full; it was a supermoon, and the night was cold and quiet. July was over, taking away the nights we spent together with our friends. I watched your face as you read the little letter I gave you, and I noticed that your smile was sincere. You looked happy to be loved by someone. Despite being quite nervous, it didn't hurt as much as I imagined it would when you rejected me. It was a bittersweet feeling. I knew you didn't love me, yet I felt, deep down inside, that you had feelings for me, even if you didn't know it yourself. Maybe I was just too naive to believe that you saw me at all, or maybe I just wasn't able to accept rejection without some solid reason behind it. In the letter in which I declared myself to you, I tried to be as brief as possible. I didn't use the word 'love' for fear of scaring you, but I told you how much I cared for you and looked forward to your presence every day. I always imagined that love came in a magical and very revealing way, but I only realized that I loved you on a random warm Monday when all I wanted was to see you, even for a few seconds, even if you didn't look at me. I wanted to feel that you were around somewhere, and every day when I leave my house, I pray to God to be lucky enough to see you around. Love hurts a lot, but it's so good at the same time. It's so addictive and overwhelming. I could drink your presence every day without getting tired of it, and that would make me the happiest person in the world. I also sleep every afternoon to cease my thoughts about you because they suffocate me, and I feel like I can't breathe if you're not around.
