It’s a complicated thing.
You complain that nice guys always finish last. That no matter what, I, or any of your other friends that are girls, will ever want to be more than friends with you. But it’s not true. I’d sit on my rooftop with you and stare up at the stars overhead and hold your hand. I’d go to a show with you and kiss you and the lead singer would holler at us and I wouldn’t care. I’d draw you silly doodles and drop them in your shirt pocket during passing periods. I’d make you mix tapes of all of the songs that remind me of you. I’d think about you all the time, and I do think about you all the time. I’m madly in love with you. You’re just not in love with me.
