On 673 Parallel Street

Dear Diary,

I met a man on 673 Parallel Street.

He said he was confused about religion and would not believe in fairy tales.

It was fine. He was kind.

He made me laugh for at least 3 good weeks before I indignantly admitted that I admired his gentle voice.

He was never aware, and honestly, I'm getting tired (rather than getting used to) having unrequited affairs. Why do I always have to participate in this kind of relationship? Dummy self.

I was always excited every time I'd see his name written on a paper plane and would be disappointed every time I learned that its landing was never meant to be mine.

Honestly, diary, I was offended. If only I could just go straight to that man and tell him I like his logic and his sense of humor, my days of insecurities will drastically decline and I won't have to overthink whether I did something that obviously showed my affection or not.

But I'd rather be insecure and overthink and cringe.

It's fine.

It's better.

Why, you ask?

Because I'm that kind of person who doesn't know how to gamble and take the risk because obviously, how can I do that if I don't even understand myself for liking someone whom I met on that street--the hallway for bored and lonely people looking for attention.

We were both strangers to each other. I only knew him by his long, cool name and he knew me for being dumb and naïve.

Let it stay that way. There's no way the both of us would get a deeper connection because first of all, I believe in the fairy tales he would not believe in; and second, we only know each other on the Parallel Street--both of us have different lives to live.