I have taught myself not to care anymore, and I have considered you a thing of the past; that I can laugh about it now and say “What was I thinking?!” with so much heartfelt conviction, I can be more credible than Obama himself. Yet you do that thing you do which I hate the most—you showed me, even in the slightest possible way, that you are still concerned about me, and those “stupid” thoughts I used to entertain are nothing but legitimate after all, even after all these juvenile years.

I know and I am quite aware that it might mean differently to you than it does to me, yet how I interpret your actions is more important translation in my shallow pool of thoughts. I can honestly be able to tick off in my fingers the number of girls you have showed kindness to, and I think you see me as someone at par with them. Nonetheless, a simple act of thoughtfulness from you, for all intents and purpose, is the number one reason why I used to like you. And in my book, any guy who does an act of goodness to me makes him a complete gentleman—someone who deserves a second chance despite the impossibility of an “us”.

Maybe it would take another two to three years before you will show that kind of valiancy to me again, and I would be doing nothing again but wait—maybe even forget it. But for now, all I can hold on to is that simple memory—a memory of a hundred and eighty seconds in blissful heaven.