I remember writing about you two summers ago. I had neither paper nor a pen, so I typed everything on my phone instead. It was weird--how everything that day was just so normal, yet my urge to write was so strong.

     I remember you hurrying your way to us. I watched as you panted, breathing in and out, in and out. You kept saying things which I did not exactly hear. You were so cute. All the while I stood there, momentarily keeping myself sane, listening to your voice but never really understanding a word.

     And then you left us, running again. It was sad, having to look at your back, not being able to say anything. As I recall now, liking you back then was, in a way, just sad as a whole. I thought of every excuse to talk to you (I had reasons to talk to you, by the way; I just did not know when and how to utilize those reasons). However, I also realized that talking to you had no point. It would mean something, but it would not do anything. The way you were back then. . . .it made me think that my efforts were useless altogether.

    And yet, I continued liking you. Did I regret this? No. You deserved being liked this way--maybe even more than this. You deserved being happy, and which is why I felt as if I had to let you go. I did not have you--I never did--but I had all these feelings I wanted you to know about. Only. . . .I could not. And, eventually, I would not.

     Do I still like you? I'm not sure. I have liked you several times before--I was not able to keep count--and now that I think I don't, I try hard to be more cautious, and harder to at least keep my feelings (if there were some left) at bay.