There's this guy that has no idea how in love I am with his body, how my entire focus narrows to the pinpoint of his existence whenever he's near. I've memorized the way his biceps flex when he stretches, the sharp line of his jaw when he's concentrating, and the dusting of hair that disappears under the collar of his shirt. When we're in a group, I'm not hearing the conversation; I'm watching his throat move as he swallows, counting the veins on his forearms, and fantasizing about the solid weight of him pinning me down. I imagine the taste of the sweat on his chest after a workout and the rough texture of his hands on my skin. He thinks we're just friends, that my lingering glances are just casual interest, but he has no fucking clue that I've spent countless nights picturing every inch of him, worshiping him from afar in a way that feels both utterly pathetic and terrifyingly intense.