can’t borrow him.
He’s not a sweater or a skirt.
He’s not even her favorite dress—the lucky one she wears on first dates. The one she probably wore on her first date with him.
In my defense, I didn’t know who he was. To me, he was a cool, calm, confident stranger. He was perfection for the entire hour and a half train ride while the concrete jungle turned into a rolling green landscape.
To an outsider, we probably appeared more friends than hopeful lovers. But my blush came quickly, and his dimples indented with every smile. We definitely shared a spark of what could be.
Too bad I didn’t know who he was before I fell for him, because he can’t be mine.