He does not know me. Not at all. No more than a blip on his visual radar. Just another student crowding the busy halls between classes trying to get from place to place between the two bells.
But I know him. I know his smile and his laugh and the way his voice sounds when he is upset or proud or excited. I know the way his soft brown eyes shine in the school's dim lighting and the way his hair stands on his head. I've noticed his silly quirks and habits, who he seems to be friends with. I've memorized his wardrobe and how he wears his clothes and the way he slings his briefcase over his shoulder as he walks from classroom to classroom. The way the muscles in his back move under his crisp, collared shirts as he bends down to so kindly pick up something I've dropped in the hall, even though he would not be able to tell you my name. Where he teaches each hour and where I have to navigate to just catch a glimpse of the perfection that is so gracefully him.
And he angers me. How he speaks to friends and classmates because he knows who they are. How I brush past him in the hallway, and can only catch his scent, but nothing more. How he was born eight years before I was. How a shining ring sits comfortably on the fourth finger of his left hand. How he is unattainable. And how he does not know me.
I remain anonymous in my love; in my infatuation, in my admiration. Leaving me to simply stare, because he will never be mine.