Look. I know the glitter on her arms are just freckles and the glow in her eyes when she looks at me are
just reflected streetlights. I know the bells in her laugh are because she laughs at everything and not
because she’s as nervous as I am. She’s told her stories to everyone at work already, and I’m the only one
who listens to her talk about The Bachelor. I know this, I know all of this. But I’m still going to blush,
I’m still going to choke on my words, I’m still gonna insist she texts me when she gets home. I’ll listen to
every word she gives me, and I’ll hope no matter what. But I know. I do.