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The words are ringing in my ears: "I love you."

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It occurs to me I may have misheard. It's the only possible explanation.

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"So, you're okay? Don't listen to those girls, Emily." I'll just pretend those three little words aren't hanging in the air - regardless of whether they were actually said.

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"Ethan, did you hear what I just said?"

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What do I say? I have no idea how to approach this, so I just stare at her wide-eyed.

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After a few moments, I feel warmth creeping up my thigh and realize its Emily's hand. At first, it's an attempt to get my attention, but as her hand ascends, I realize the intent is not so innocent.

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"We have to go. It's time to go," I say, stilted, like Rain Man talking about his Kmart underwear.

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I grip the steering wheel for dear life because if I don't, the car and my life will go careening into the abyss. I've spent all this time convincing myself that Emily and I could never be anything but friends. Knowing that she may feel the same about me as I feel about her will complicate things, and I suddenly feel trapped.

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It's so quiet as we drive, that I hear a small plinking that would go unnoticed otherwise, but as I near the duplex, the sound the car is making increases. I briefly wonder if it's because the plink is getting worse or the quiet is just so intense. I make a mental note to find the origin of the plinking before putting too many more miles on the car.

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I should be thinking about the woman sitting next to me and her recent declaration instead of small pings, but I'm not... I can't.

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If I do... no.

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I can't think.

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I'm not even sure how I get here, but I'm sitting in the middle of my bed, having an argument with myself.

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It's no surprise that I'm winning.

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"She told you she loves you."

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"She says she loves to cook. She loves lots of things."

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"She's in there and you're in here."

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"You really need to clean the ceiling fan blades."

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I can't help but roll my eyes at myself.

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When I finally exit my room, the apartment is dark and quiet. Emily is asleep on the couch with a tight grip on the blankets. Little does she know she's gripping at my heart the same way.

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The notebook on the side table catches my eye, and I can't help but snoop. As I near it, I see there are several wads of paper strewn across the floor - discarded because they weren't perfect. The top piece, still clinging to life in its spiral bindings, is flawless.

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Dear Ethan -

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Sitting down to write this, I've never felt more like a young girl than I do right now. For the past two years, I've looked at you every day in hopes that someday - you'd feel for me, what I feel for you. But now I see that we perceive different things regarding our relationship. Maybe it could be classified on my part as hero worship, but I'd like to think I'm smarter than that. I think I know the difference between infatuation and love.

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I know there is a difference in our ages, but who cares? My heart has no idea how old your heart is. I just know that if I don't tell you, it will fester inside me, and I'll die a slow painful death. I've only ever loved my mom and never really knew what it was like to care for another person until I met you.

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I didn't fall in love with you that first day, but after many months of learning to appreciate your care and concern, I could see how kind your soul - your whole being is. That's when I knew another kind of love existed. It isn't the type of love between family members, or a crush, but a true love that is unconditional and lasting, a love that I can no longer hide.

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I know you probably don't return these feelings, but I couldn't go another second without you knowing. I understand if it makes you uncomfortable, and I'll find another place to live if you feel like we can no longer be friends.

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Love always,

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Emily

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I tightly clutch the notebook page in my hand.

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How can she do this to me?

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Doesn't she know what she's done?

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No... it's not right.

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Not now, and without any further thoughts, I'm out the door.