Most of these aren't directed to anyone in particular, but this one is.

I don't know what's wrong with me. We met once, more than a year ago, but your name is still a little fishhook of pleasure, and that in itself is problematic because your name is also my friend's husband's name and I don't really want to be reminded of how when we were sixteen I tried to seduce him with a pool and cannonballs.

I wish you weren't going on a Mormon mission. I understand that you still love the church even though I think you're outgrowing it pretty quickly, and I think you'll make it through in a blaze of glory, but that just puts so much more between us. Now even if I end up in the state you live in—and I was quietly planning to myself how to make that happen, a year or two down the road—you won't be there, you'll be in New Mexico. And when you finish your mission, you'll still have years of Mormon sponsored school, unless I can finally get you to transfer.

What kind of magic can pull me to you so insistently from so little? Let's be honest, questionable fast food and walking around a California suburb is not normally remarkable, certainly not a year after the fact.

I don't know how it would work. You don't like reading. You want to be a goddamned dentist.

I  want you to know about this hot sweaty mess in my head because I think I have to block you on Facebook and Skype. It's not your fault, per say—there's nothing that you should have done but didn't—it's just that you don't do what I wish you would, and I don't like the distracting and ridiculous and wholly pointless ache I feel when I see your little digital icon that is definitely not your beautiful body here with me. You'll be fine without me, of course, and honestly I'm not convinced you'll notice once my little links and comments stop peppering you.

I'm trying to be adult about it, though. I mean as much as I can. I may have a few years on you, but I'm still young and "feelings" are every bit as weird and difficult to manage as they always told us.