If ABC interrupted Alias one Sunday night in order to tell me that the world would be ending in thirty-six hours, I would sit down and write something like this:

Dear ____,

I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you that I'm in love with you. It took far too long for me to realize that it's love, since my crush on you has not been accompanied by any of my usual symptoms. I've never been at a loss for words around you, you don't make my knees weak, and my heart rate remains deceptively steady in your presence.

But I would've been happy if you'd come over to visit one night and just never left.

I want to know what you said to me that time we were standing in that club, and you pulled me up against you. It was so loud, and I was so busy thinking, "Doesn't this only happen in movies?" that I missed your words. I'm glad I kissed you that night. I know I said when we talked the next day that I just wanted to be friends. I was lying.

I never told you all this because I know you still think she hangs the moon, even though she left. And I'm not going to say that she doesn't love you the way I love you, because for all I know, she'll be on your doorstep, letter in hand, when I get there. Except she probably won't bother to write a letter. In fact, she may already be on her way, in which case I should type faster. I'm not saying you shouldn't feel the way you do about her. I'm just saying, the way you feel about
her is how I feel about you.

I have these embarrassing fantasies -- no, not the smutty ones. Those are fine. It's the other ones that make me blush and worry about my mental state.

There's one where you and I go to Target to buy something practical, usually throw rugs or some sort of kitchen appliance, and you end up talking me into buying an Xbox and then school me at Madden 2004. You get up and do a victory dance and I'm not even mad at you because I'm laughing too hard. I know you don't play video games; I just like imagining the funny
dance.

Then there's the one where we're slow dancing at a friend's wedding and you tell me I look beautiful, and I smile so big it hurts, but I can't smile and dance at the same time, and I trip over my feet. You tell me I'm also a wonderful dancer.

Or there‚s one where I have a little too much to drink at a party and you hold my hair while I throw up and bring me a glass of water, and then tuck me into bed, promising not to mock me until I'm sober.

Yeah, I realize that one kind of happened at your last party. I'm sorry I threw up on your bathroom floor. Believe me, that was not how I envisioned the end of the evening. Thank you for laughing and rubbing my back instead of being mad at me, and for letting me sit in the bathroom for an hour, trying to figure out how to get over my mortification (and nausea). Thanks
for calling me the next morning to see if I was all right, and to mock me.

I know that all of this will shortly be meaningless, but I thought it would be a shame for the world to end without you knowing that I want to slow dance and buy throw rugs and make an idiot of myself with you. And, since we won't be able to do any of those things, when you finish this letter, I'm going to press my face into the crook of your neck, kiss that tattoo on your wrist, wrap your arms around my waist, and wait for the apocalypse.

With love,
L