All you said was that you enjoyed my writing. The way my words were splattered onto paper as if there was an actual crime scene on my piece. I wanted to tell you that it wasn't a big deal, but you said otherwise. Not a lot of people have seen my work, yet you've decided that I was the creator of English literature.

You hinted, not subtly, to write about you one day. What would I write about you? The way your eyebrows furrowed so gently when I told you I couldn't concentrate? Or what about the way you yawned so quietly, making your eyes smaller? "Do you even think of me to write about me?" you asked. I don't think about your beautiful brown eyes, ready to be delved in. I don't think about the way you smile, making your very vibrant teeth show off even more.

I think about your stories, and the great detail you put into that one moment. It almost makes me feel like I was there. I think about your heart, always trying to put emphasis on why life should be experienced in its full glory. I think about the amount of sleep you get and how your day was. I think about how you may be a little older than me, but it doesn't change the fact that I still get worried about you. Your hands tell me stories that I know you don't want to converse about, but you acknowledge that you were there.

The time gaps between our messages are a great amount, but I know you want to make a better life for your mother. You are beautiful, indeed. But you're more than that. I hate to admit it, but I like you. All you said was that you enjoyed my writing, but I wanted to say I enjoy the thought of you.