A year ago I wasn’t ready. A year ago, problems rose in my life and I didn’t know how to handle them. A year ago I would repress all feelings. Then I met you. When I saw you for the first time I thought you were too thin for me. I had a type: blond hair as if the sun dropped one ray from the sky, blue eyes as if the oceans couldn’t keep calm and raged a storm, so tall they could touch the stars and hand one to me, lean but muscular as a brick wall no one could break and I knew I would remain protected and loved in just one hug. You denied everything I wanted from my imaginary boyfriend and you kept showing up. You were real. But as the seconds quickly turned into months, I realized my imperfection and learned of your scars too, similar to my own. But while mine went horizontally, yours went vertically and if we put them together, they never would have been parallel—doomed to meet—they would have intersected at a point where we needed them to. It would have been close to whole. I was ready for you. The tingling in my heart grew as our time faded, I thought you were gone forever. Classes started again and I thought fate gave me a second chance. They looked down on me and decided to give me a break. Whether it was pity or empathy, I thought it was time to open up. So I unlocked the key to my heart; the lock metallic orange with rust, the key a bit dented but it still fit. Then I started imagining my life with you. I imagined you standing next to me, our hands occasionally brushing, your hand warm though it gave me chills. I imagined your smell combining with mine when you sat next to me, we would create something uniquely our own. I imagined being in your presence and being nothing but uncontrollably happy. I imagined. I imagined. I imagined. I saw a post saying you were in a new relationship with a girl who wasn’t me. I imagine a dark life, the one it was and always will be no matter how hard I try to imagine.