Love Letters to Strangers

To the boy who was watching Psych at a cubicle on the 4th floor of the Fenwick, on February 1, 2019,

I swear I’m not a creeper. At least, I don’t think I am. I didn’t watch you watch Psych but I noticed as I was walking past, back to my seat, that you were watching one of my favorite TV shows, that no one else seems to watch anymore. I’d been obsessed with it for a good few weeks and was working on some fanfiction for it. And then I saw you watching it and it was like a cheesy rom com parody where one single details means we’re meant to be together forever. My heart beat fast, my thoughts buzzed a little. If it was a film or something like that I would’ve tapped you on the shoulder and told you that it was my favorite show and then you’d say something else to get the conversation going. I’d pull up a chair and we’d talk for a while or we’d go downstairs to get some tea or hot chocolate and continue our conversation in montage form, with only the witty things shown and the slow motion laughing.

But the most that would come of it in real life would be you would look bothered that I’d disturbed you, or confused. Then I would tell you I love the show you’re watching and explain that I’m not a creeper. You’d probably give me a weird look and say cool. Then I would walk off blushing, and the pack up quickly to escape my embarrassment.

If I was more optimistic and I wasn’t feeling particularly shy that day, we could’ve had a beautiful future together. To what could’ve been.


The girl that’s so short her head doesn’t peek over the cubicle wall. You probably didn’t see me. Shaved head.