2004, 365 words.
I see you viewing your self in your bedroom mirror, with evidence of comfort casually spread around the room, but I cannot tell if it's comfortable or only time-worn ease, which is nearly the same thing anyway. It's not my space, and in just looking at the phone and other objects on that dressing table, I feel intrusive. But when I look at your picture, I don't feel anything but a desire to touch you, to be embraced by you, something, it seems, which will never happen. I'm supposed to not care about that; this amusement we afford ourselves is finite in origin and finite in result. Yet now and then, I do care. To the point that I can feel it crawling over my skin, and in the tear ducts beneath my eyes. And at that point I want you, want to be with you so badly I have a hard time thinking of anything else.
And I cannot tell you. The idea that I'd be willing to make it even that much more real upsets the balance of your tidy world.
And yet, and yet it grows stronger with each passing season; this desire for the real, corporeal you. It consumes me and drives me until I take hold and manage to shove the whole mess of feelings into the back of my head again, so I can go on back to our sweet and silly friendship, never scaring you with the intensity of my true feelings.
Edging too close to reality makes you uncomfortable, and I understand about that. You have a strict world to maintain and a well-put-together life to protect. The merest abstract discussion of disruption puts the worry lines on your forehead, which I can see even over the internet.
If I could pull you out of that world, like, out of time somehow, where it didn't matter, I'd do it, just for a little while, and when you got back to reality, only the sensation of a memory would remain, with no thought of what it all meant or where it all would and could not ever lead; just a dream made real for one brief period of time.
2004, 365 words.