Dear Isaac,

I don't know where to start and honestly I don't think I should even be starting. You have other ties but I've been building up for years now and I don't think I can keep it hidden any longer. When did it all start�eighth grade. I remember it so vividly. You were there, at a little party at Mary's house. I saw you, across the room, looking at me. Stuff like that doesn't happen to me. It's kind of like a movie. Plain little girl who's never been noticed a day in her life is being admired from afar by her knight in shining armor, so-to-speak. I'll say it. I made excuses. I made as many excuses as I could so I could convince myself that you weren't looking at me. Why would anyone look at me? I'm so dull. But, you were, and I'll never forget that.

Long pause. I didn't see you again until high school. I didn't even know you were there until that day in January, at our pizza parlor hang out, when you sent a girl friend to ask me out for you. Peering over my shoulder at you, I didn't recognize you as my admirer. No, that realization came later when it was too late. I said no. A million reasons why�none of them could make it hurt any less. I was with someone else who just turned around and abandoned me less than a month later. I was little, stupid, and I didn't realize what a mistake that was. I think about it�and you�every day. If there was one thing, just one thing I could go back and change in my entire life that would be it. I would have said yes. I would have enjoyed it.

Time passes. April 12 of that year. It's a Wednesday; I stay after school for some function. It's the first time I hear you play your guitar. I had no idea until then that you played. In the cafeteria, you sit on a table, your acoustic in your arms, striking a few sweet chords. I'm there, with a bunch of others, watching. I said something to the effect of "Yeah, I know maybe three chords." You looked at me (I was off to the side, as usual) and said, "Well I guess you can't do this, then." You played something complicated, looking directly at me with the stare from the eighth grade party that I'll never forget. I don't remember what you were playing, if I knew it at all. The music just died, faded away, and I was glued to your eyes, staring at me like I'm the only person in the world. You're the only person I know who can do that, whether you're conscious of it or not. You still do it, that wide-eyed look that I see all the time and crave to see more often.

Seven o'clock; you had a performance that night. You'll play the song from the cafeteria, among other things. I'm not entirely sure because I didn't attend. I should have. I heard that song later when I bought your album. I would have died to see you play it. Back to reality, you're practicing, waiting to go in to perform, and I'm waiting for a ride home. I look over at you and another kid (it turned out to be your brother Taylor), playing together. You look at me like you do so well, so often, and I'm lost. I'm in love with you, as much as an almost-fifteen-year-old can be.

And time goes on. Sophomore year little to nothing happens except my complete embarrassment in front of you. That's when I coined the phrase "My Guitar God" after another one of your performances. I don't care to elaborate. During this time I don't talk to you much, but I start to notice the little things that always blow my mind. You and I, whenever we're around each other (and I'm sure you don't notice), start to say things at the same time. One example; our mutual friend Monica states her pizza is about 8x11 inches in size, I say "Hey, it's a piece of paper!" Apparently you said the same exact thing. Far-fetched, yes, but it happens all the time, even now. It happened last night.

Junior year I start to see you less. You'd recorded your album and you were about to sweep the country. When you were home, though, there were more coincidences. We say more things at the same time and laugh about it, although I turn red immediately afterwards. This year is not a good year, though. You met her. You dated her. I had to sit back and watch. It sucked, a lot, because she and I are friends. But she treated you well. You were happy. As long as you were happy I could care less about me. That doesn't mean I still didn't secretly wish you'd break up, but I wasn't pissed when you didn't. It was all right. I got through it.

Then you broke up. It's senior year. I'm going to college 1500 miles away from home and you're going back to the studio to record your next album. I decided I should tell you. I'm so shy I can't do it, although everyone is egging me on. I made a sorry attempt through a cryptic poem and you missed it, and I don't blame you.

So much happened. I know a heck of a lot more than you think I do. I know about the junior chick that you cheated on your girlfriend with. I know all about it. Between me and one or two other people, we know everything that happens in our large group of friends, secret or not. It's not hard when you're quiet. When you're quiet, people don't think you're there.

And here we are, finally to the present. You're with someone who treats you bad and I remain the spectator. I haven't said that you shouldn't put up with her, or that she's using you because of your fame, or she doesn't deserve you, or, more importantly, that I would treat you a million times better. But I will say this: It's been all these years and I'm still shy. Nothing has changed. Maybe this will change something and my "what could have been's" will not be on paper, but in my life. We'll see. Tomorrow's the sequel to the tragedy of part one.

Love,
Gracie

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