I met you a week ago. Seven days, twelve classes, twenty-one meals, approximately eighteen hours on FaceTime. However you choose to quantify our moments together since, you have undoubtedly caused a rift in the typically mundane way I go about my days here on campus. I am by no means a morning person, and yet you have me floating into my 8am chemistry lectures with a newfound vigor, restless to convey our morning texts to my friends. Conversations that would usually have my full attention become simply background noise, the buzz of my phone alerting me to your incoming call suddenly the only sound I care about. Meeting you has led me to adapt the way I interact with those in front of me and the attention I allot to the world around me. You have me completely enthralled despite the distance that lies between us. And that scares me.

I open most every conversation I have nowadays with an update on the pick-up line you sent me that morning or the way we talked until three the night before. I cannot help but attempt to gauge the responses of my peers, hoping desperately they too understand what’s got me in a twist. There was no set fifteen-minute period in which I was able to solely focus on the interactions at hand or the person sitting across from me. You were always there in the back of my mind, a welcomed distraction. So now, in hopes to quell my nerves as I sit here writing this, awaiting your response to a question I never thought I would ask, I sit in the lounge and attempt to observe those around me. I am the only girl in a room of seven boys. One of them, a friend, asks, “how’s it going with the hot lesbian?” I tell him I do not know yet, but will hopefully have an answer in the upcoming minutes.