How confusing it is, this thing that creeps inside me.  
I saw the starry sky that night, and I couldn’t help but notice the brightest one,  
shining down like a flashlight aimed straight at my confusion.  
That star—like her, I thought—  
gave light to the darkness, as though it had to announce itself.  
Suddenly, color seemed to seep into my dull little world,  
the past expressions I had stored away like old letters in a drawer  
all started to resurface,  
as though some invisible chain had just snapped inside me,  
and, of all things, joy—  
the joy I had carefully avoided—  
appeared like an uninvited guest at my door.  
But what is this, this feeling that goes beyond all of that?

Her smile, wide enough to make the sun feel insecure,  
and those eyes that twinkle like she’s hiding secrets  
send my heart stumbling like a drunk guy at a wedding.  
Her silly jokes? They’re like little pebbles that hit my chest and make me laugh,  
the kind of laughter that gets stuck in your throat,  
the kind you can’t hold back.  
And those stories of hers, sometimes dull as dishwater,  
I don’t even care—they’re her stories,  
and I’d listen to them forever,  
just to hear that voice.  
It’s like a magnet, I think, pulling me closer,  
and somehow, I’m okay with it.  
Am I crazy?

I used to be someone who didn’t want any of this.  
I was content—no, I was proud—  
sitting in the shade of my own company,  
a cup of coffee for a friend, a book for a companion.  
I didn’t care for the dates on the calendar,  
or the ones who tried to give me a reason to care.  
But now I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t name,  
ready to fall into a ditch I can’t resist.  
This feeling—  
what on earth is it?  
Is it love?  
If so, well, I suppose  
it’s time I stopped pretending I don’t feel it.