Could I be anymore obvious?

Pounding heart. Reddened cheeks. Sweaty palms.

That's how I look when I see him.

At least, that's how I think I look.

My friends say I'm avoidant. I can't look him in the eyes when he's near. I become cold, nonchalant—almost indifferent—to a guy I'm crazy about.

Then they ask me why I like him.

Like they can't see why.

He's handsome. Intelligent. And intelligent and intelligent...

You get the gist.

I like intelligent men. Men whose minds keep me on my toes. Men who can pull me into conversations I don't want to end, leaving me with an insight I hadn't considered before.

Men whose minds make me curious.

But that's not just it with him.

We met two years after we actually met.

He taught me while I listened from a class of four hundred students.

He never saw me.

I never saw him.

Until I did.

Then we met.

And suddenly, he wasn't just the man at the front of a room anymore.

I saw him.

I felt him.

Did he see me?

He didn't.

He didn't.

He didn't.