Maybe one day I’ll look back and not even remember how much I used to think about you, maybe I’ll only remember the good bits, the bit where you’re one of my friends, where life is a bed of roses and we are the reddest, brightest petals. Maybe I won’t remember how you are the last thing that goes through my mind every night. I won’t remember how I’m consumed by a feeling I can only visually describe as a flutter of white feathers from fluffy pillows exploding when I talk to you. Maybe I won’t remember staying up on Saturday nights expecting your call or lying on the cold marble floor outside my bedroom only to talk to you. I probably won’t remember that you told me you wanted to talk to me every time you felt sad. And I definitely won’t remember how much I wanted to hug you and hold your hand every time I was with you. Yes I am biased and yes I feel something. I don’t know what it is and I don’t need to name it either. Not naming it means I will probably definitely not remember it years later. Maybe. Hopefully. Because even though it has no name, it has an adjective: “unrequited”, and I can’t let future me remember an insanely intense feeling only as being unrequited.