I wrote a novel about your beauty before you noticed I was trying to look through your window and failing and falling. You didn't know I existed and I was already completely charmed by your unique last name. Or by the different tones your voice would reach depending on how serious or hilarious the topic of the conversation was. Or by the matching colours of your hair and eyes.
And I was never the girl next door you'd lay your eyes on, yet I lived at the house besides yours. And so knocking on your door with a silly excuse of asking for a soup or a box of mac & cheese had only one intention, which was letting you know I was there.
(...)
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