By Tyler Suzuki

It was three weeks ago, more or less. 

The weather washed upon the Metroplex like a flood. Temperatures dropped to something completely unfathomable to me, someone that grew up in glorified swamplands. To you, though, it was probably par for the course.

We are definitely not the same. 

You live off the adrenaline, the flashing lights, the thrill of the hunt. I am the girl in the corner who watches your every move, the wallpaper of your favorite room in the house, the quiet field of daisies in the meadow outside. We are tied to one another, hopelessly. You don’t know that.

I watch you. I have been. I noticed everything. You’re the light of my life, the lucky baseball card in my pocket, the poster on my wall. You’re the smile on my face, the sunshine that wakes me up. You don’t know that.

You chase the others like a lion hunting down a gazelle. I cheer you on. My voice is lost in the sea of people coming to watch you get pummeled. Yet, I’m there. You don’t know that.

You celebrate with your teammates. The sea tries to turn their tide on you, green and white threatening to overtake. I am there, though. The red dot in the victory green. I give you all the strength I have. You don’t know that.

You lose. The sea cheers and pulls away. However, I can’t. You made me love something that may not love me back, in the weird, twisted ways it shows itself. That’s okay. I’ve watched you succeed, you fail, you fall, I am still the silent support. 

You changed my world, brought me into something I can’t get out of, something I don’t want to get out of. 

You don’t know that. You don’t need to.