My ex-crush knew nothing about me either.
He thought he knew something.
(Who knew what Lindsey might have told him?)
Maybe I only admired him
for what I thought he was.
The mental image of him I always held so dear
had been nothing more than an idealized version of him,
like the books he reads.
Everything I read in his glances was fiction
(like a book I had written myself).
It was more hope than anything
—hope that he liked me.
But he could not like me
because he did not really know me