To the kid in my Literature class whom I “met” at a party last Saturday:
When we made awkward eye contact across the room — only to be unfortunately paired up as beer pong partners — I thought we could leave this whole uncomfortable business untouched ... but no.
"You're in one of my classes, aren't you?"
Oh God, you went there.
"Yeah, I think I've seen you around."
The truth is, kid, we both know I haven't just “seen you around.” You and I both know that we've been making that same awkward eye contact twice a week since freshman year. In that time, I've learned way more about you then I have ever cared to.
I know you're a hard-core Reddittor and you look at the same girl's Facebook page every single day in class. I also know you were reading the Sparknotes for our Jane Eyre discussion last week — which, by the way, I find criminal.
I know you text your mom every morning at the same time, you have a particular fondness for the ABP asiago cheese breakfast sandwich, and you shop almost exclusively on eBay.
I know that when you were a freshman, you wore the same white tennis shoes everywhere, but now you've matured and replaced them with the awful habit of leaving your shirt unbuttoned one button farther then acceptable. I'm guessing that's because you're particularly fond of your three manly chest hairs.
I know you got a dog last semester when you started coming in covered in hair and looking at pictures of a big golden lab almost as much as you looked at that girl.
I know you write terrible poetry, think 9:30 classes start at 9:39 and fall asleep whenever someone reads Shakespeare.
And I KNOW you probably know just as many weird things about me — and that is totally fine. We had the perfect system worked out. You provided me with more in-class entertainment over the years than I could have ever hoped for.
But then you had to ruin it.
Now the illusion is shattered. Now all I’m allowed to know is the stuff you’ve actually told me, like your name and that you want to be a high school teacher.
Those are such boring things compared to the stuff I'd invented for you. All of my cool stories are useless now because you broke the primary rule.
The first rule of weird classmates is you don't talk about weird classmates. We’re supposed to go on judging the small details of each other's lives without actually acknowledging each other's existence.
That first time you speak, the first time you admit to knowing me — that’s when it’s all over. It was nice knowing you while it lasted.