Anonymity.

I choose it. I endure it. I bask in it.

For without it surfaces vulnerability, with it an insatiable but at least tolerable longing.

It’s the easiest option anyway, which is why it’s the path I am veering around – a desolate, pointless loop of unending pretense.

Why, you ask? Because it is the only way I know – the only way to make you somehow know without really knowing how I feel inside. Ironic, isn’t it?

All right *sigh*, it’s just that I’m a coward. THERE! I said it.

I’m scared.  Of being sneered or pointed fingers at is one thing, but of having to deal with the pain of your rejection, or even worse, bear with your plain disgust, is another even more terrifying ordeal.

It’s okay. Seeing you smile as you read the notes I securely stuck to your locker – the words imprinted just a speck of the expanse of my emotions – while I absorb the image of you smiling from my peripheral vision, is enough to get me through the day with my mouth likewise curved upwards.

It’s alright. Seeing your gratitude as you drink the thirst-quencher or take a bite of the chocolate cookies I stealthily snuck into your part of the changing room after a strenuous amount of training at the gym, is enough to rejuvenate my own drained and aching muscles.

It’s fine, really. Seeing you cry out of joy as I denied myself much-needed sleep to sneak out of the dorms in order to look for the necklace you lost around the dark and empty campus – with luck only coming to the rescue at the break of dawn as a glint of silver caught my eye from under the swimming pool – is enough, no, more than enough, to not mind the flu I caught for a good week and a half.

I don’t mind. Watching you from afar and secretly lending a hand when you need help is good enough for me. I guess.

You don’t need to know, that it was me all along. You would just wish you hadn’t known if you do come to know, right? You might only get disillusioned. I don’t want to disappoint you.

For you see, Krystal Jung, you deserve so much more. You deserve someone better than me, if I am even any good.

You deserve a man. Not even just any man, but someone who’ll fit your description of ideal.

I can never be that ideal.

For I am not a man. :(

~Anonymous~

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Assumption.

I hope it’s you. I wish it’s you. I make-believe it’s you. If it was someone else other than you, then everything is meaningless to me – for you alone hold meaning in this inexplicable whirlpool of sentiments.

So please. Will you just look at me? Will you already talk to me? Will you finally be brave enough for me?

This is torturing.

Not knowing for certain is plain torture.

Forming an invalidated guess hurts – for only seeing it with my own eye, or hearing it out of your own mouth – would prove it all true. But you still remain somewhat cold and distant.

You don’t make me see. You don’t let me hear.

Do you even feel the way I feel?

Smiling upon seeing those daily notes of love and care, feeling thankful for the littlest things you give that cheer me up, tearing up out of pure delight at the most touching deeds – that’s how I feel, ONLY when I let myself think it’s all from you.

Is it?

I hope so.

For I don’t need a man, when my own version of ideal is all about you.

Having you is what will fill this void in my heart.

So take the risk. Please do, before I quit believing these idiotic assumptions of mine, which may not even be correct after all.

Prove me right ‘Anonymous’, that it’s you – you, Amber Liu.

~Krystal Jung~

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Feeling sentimental at the moment, this author. Forgive me.