That's the three words I wanna say to you every time you pass me by. I miss sitting right next beside you, fussing over you and handing you my jacket for a pillow when you settle for a nap on that coffeeshop table, texting you my every impulsive thought.

I miss you.

I know that we can never happen. Never in a million years. I think I'm only allowed one great fulfilled each lifetime, and on the way to being a doctor and all its trappings is it for me. I will never know great, epic love. So I gave up on you. And I'm giving up on me. Along with the acceptance that I may be falling for you I also doomed myself to a melodramatic tragedy.

So there.

And it doesn't help that you've been so impossibly gorgeous lately. And hearing about how you flutter about, doing stuff for your own one great love, while kilig-inducing, is excruciating. But I wanna hear them, anyway. Better that than not hearing from you at all.

And I wish I could tell you all these things. But I promised myself that I would never go to such self-destructive extremes. And I don't think you wanna hear about all of this. Your life is complicated as it is and I don't wanna bother you with inane questions that I'm sure have no answers.

I friggin' miss you.