The one for whom I took up art, and then failed my art exam.
The one for whom I tried to be into football.
The one I poured out my heart to my mentor about for months, and then found out she was secretly dating him.
The one who probably liked me back, but whom I scared off with my enthusiasm.
The one who did love me back, but whom I could not have.
The one who didn’t take no for an answer.
The one who spent hours building my IKEA bookshelf. (I already liked him before this, but it did not help.)
The one for whom I started learning Russian and tried to force myself to like mushrooms.
The one who was everything I had been taught to want.
The one who was all of those things but maybe less so: I had started to settle.
The one who appreciated good cooking but didn’t want to come over and try mine.
The one who is too old and too famous and too far away, but I’ve never met anyone like him and for a long time I couldn’t quite let him go. And if I have now, it’s only on a technicality.