There’s a reason they call it a “crush.” That’s because, physically, it crushes you. The weight of thinking about that person is enough to feel the physical exertion of their presence and their effect on you in your chest. It’s heavy, it makes it hard to breathe, and you can feel your heart being crushed beneath their inability to see you as anything other than just another person.

Remember when we were young and our friends would tease us for having a crush on somebody? We would confide in them at sleepovers, whispering and giggling about how we thought someone was so cute and so dreamy, and did you see the way he looked at me in homeroom? Any time you and your beloved were within 10 feet of each other, you would all break out into fits of giggles because the love connection between you two was just too much to bear. If you were lucky, you’d share a tender, blushing kiss in front of the lockers after school or you’d go to a movie together with your parents chauffeuring you to and from the theater, asking all sorts of embarrassing questions as you wished you could crawl under the seat and hide away forever. But that was a long, long time ago.

Now we’re old and weathered and have scars in places that used to be unscathed. But yet, that familiar feeling of a crush still lingers. You see them from across the library, from across the party, from across the classroom. They’ll draw you in with curious eyes and an inviting smile that says, “I’m dying to know your name.” Maybe you introduce yourself; maybe not, if you’re too timid or if you’re in the library and that’s not necessarily the most conducive environment for sparking a connection with someone. Either way, that feeling returns.

A warmth, a heat, explodes from your rapidly beating heart, and that heat spreads to your face and your palms become clammy and your stomach begins to roil. You are transported back to your 12th year, when Mother Nature hadn’t quite given you the gift of a tiny waist and a big bosom that so effortlessly beckons men in. Everything was simpler back then because no one had messy histories with other people or ulterior motives or aspirations too high to be involved with someone like you. It seemed to hurt so much back then, when he kissed that other girl in front of the lockers, but you could never anticipate the hurt of being let down when you’re 20.

The thing about crushes is that, unless you’re a lucky one (which, all too often, I am not), that’s ultimately all they do: crush you. You’re crushed when he walks away from you to flirt with another girl at the bar. You’re crushed when you see him leave the party, fingers intertwined with another girl with whom you feel you can never compare. You’re crushed when your realize that because you didn’t have the gall to tell him that you think he is handsome and charming and funny and deep and all tied up with a bow, he is drinking in the scent of another girl’s perfume and feeling her soft skin beneath his hand.

But, my God, where the hell would we be if we didn’t take risks? I’m sure that younger self I mentioned before dove time and time again headfirst into murky water with a reckless abandon that has long been forgotten by your soul. The truth is, you can compare to that other girl. If you are a living, breathing being with any semblance self-respect, you can compare to anyone out there.

Yes, it’s taking a risk to tell someone how you feel, even if those feelings are so miniscule and insignificant that they barely affect you. But you never know how your feelings will affect someone else. Maybe, just maybe, they’re feeling the exact same way, but look at how wonderful you are and are intimated by your success and drive. Maybe you’ve been hurt in the past and they know that and they think that hurt has rendered you emotionally unavailable. Or maybe, like you, they’re scared out of their damn minds because the risk of being rejected is always there. No one likes to be rejected; that’s a no-brainer. But it’s a lot better to live a life of “oh wells” than “what ifs.”