I am in love with you. It’s an undeniable fact.

But I think, I might not write about you visibly for a while. I feel like such a fraud having to write about another new love, another new feelings, another new discoveries, another new moments. I’ll be writing them in secret, but I won’t go and tell the world about you. I want to keep my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions—all exclusively mine.

I am looking back at everything else, and in retrospect, it’s such a juvenile feeling—the idea of being in a situation that I have experienced some years ago, and even years before that. It’s not that I don’t want to fall in love with you, no; it’s not that I don’t want to fall head over heels in love with you either. I want to be charmed by you, I want to be enthralled still, I want to be in this state of yearning, yes. I want to keep wishing, I want to keep hoping, and yes, I want to keep even the hurt of not knowing if it’s inevitable. If you’re possible. I want to be hurt by the extreme feelings, I want to feel somewhat complacent that I may just be right, but I also want to feel the insecurity of not being enough.

I want you.

But I don’t know what to do with it.

I want you.

But I am so afraid that feelings are recyclable. That moments are recyclable. That these emotions are highly unoriginal.

I want you.

But you might be thinking, so what?

I’m in love with you.

(but so what?)