Looking into the dirty mirror, I reapply my favorite pink sparkle lip gloss. The fluorescent lights of the coffee house restroom hound on me, making every wrinkle exaggerated, every pore gaping. I move to my eyes, trying to fix my eyeliner through graffiti posted on the wall, taking my time to ensure everything looks perfect. It doesn't. My foundation separated around my nose, my outfit I picked out this morning makes me look like a box and my hair is so frizzy It could be classified as its own separate entity. I shove my purse on the sink in frustration. 

 

This is incredibly stupid, I'm hiding out in the bathroom like a third grader with her first crush. The thought of me having a crush makes me want to vomit. It's so, immature. Also, even if I did like this guy, so what? This guy and I have been playing eye tag for weeks, coming to the coffee house at the same time each day, same order, steal glances at each other and then leave our opposite ways. Although, I do tend to sneak a glance back at him every time he leaves. His tall, confident walk and perfectly tailored pants, with his button-down shift tucked in neatly, and ironed! What man irons anymore? And his voice! I try to catch his voice every time he orders. Tall, husky and assertive. And his name, Daniel. Doesn't that just roll off your tongue perfectly? 

 

I catch myself daydreaming in the mirror, my stupid smile and wistful eyes say it all. Closing my eyes and putting my back to the wall, I slide down and put my head in my arms, not caring when the last time they mopped the floor in here was. I hate this. I hate how I know he's getting to the coffee shop in 10 minutes, hate how I got here early to see him, to maybe even work up the courage to say something. Most of all, I hate how easy I can fall in love with a guy I know absolutely nothing about. I thought the love at first sight connection was just in movies, how your eyes meet and suddenly nothing else in the world matters. That's stuff of musicals, not reality. And yet every time I see him my heart beats faster and faster, I catch myself stealing more glances at him, not to mention each time my face gets redder. Suddenly all I can do is think about seeing him, putting on my cutest makeup and clothes so maybe he'll notice me, getting here early so maybe we could get to know each other?

 

What does that even mean, getting to know each other. I want to simultaneously remain the cool mysterious coffee house girl, while at the same time tell him everything about me. And what if he does get to know me? What then? How do you get to know the twenty years it has taken to make me the person I am today? Who says he's even going to like that person? 

 

How do you get to know a whole person, who doesn't even feel like a whole person? I am fragments of a glass; pieces of a larger idea that hasn't even been created. I feel so disconnected from every other era of me, of who I was, who I am who I want to be, but also who I will be. How do I let someone get to know me when I don't even know those parts of myself? 

 

When I was five, I remember parading around the house in my princess dresses, all of them worn at once because, well why not? I wanted to wear all my princess dresses, so I did. Call it five-year-old logic but I was on to something there. I was a tall kid. I was conscious of that, that and I would keep growing and never be this small or young again. We had a two-seater couch, and I remember being just tall enough to lay down completely and have my feet and head touch the other sides perfectly. I remember thinking that would be the last time I would be that small, be able to do that. I was smart like that, or at least I thought I was, aware of the fact that I would grow up. I would always try to read my mom's grown-up books, play with my pretend makeup and plastic heels, walk around mimicking my mother, a businesswoman. My play sets were all pretend toys, pretend ice cream shop, pretend kitchen, pretend drive through at McDonalds, my favorite toy. I thought I was so prepared, so ready, so unafraid of being older. I was ready to become a grown up me.

 

I was around thirteen when I regretted that. That's what I started realizing what being a grown up would mean. When having a boyfriend that you could blow kisses to on the playground at recess turned into the boys in my classroom staring at my new, developing body. When playing with pretend makeup became learning how to conceal parts of myself, my dark eyes, my pimples, myself. When wearing plastic heels turned into a strappy bra used to constrain my new body. When laying on my mother's chest became less and less frequent, and my father stopped looking at me like I was his perfect little girl. It was no longer cool to wear big pink princess dresses, and my grandmother could no longer walk with me through the mall. I was becoming, something, something new, something different. Different was bad, we tend to learn that around that age. So, I started counting calories, started dressing like everyone else. Started pretending to like the same bands that was popular. I started yelling at my mom, rolling my eyes at my dad, not because I wanted to, but because I was so angry, confused, scared. Scared I was alone, all alone. Because I wanted people to like me. Was that me?

 

I wanted a boyfriend at sixteen, a real, true love, like in all the high school movies. Someone who would take care of me, takes me on dates, wins me cute stuffed animals at the fair. Someone who would hold my hand in the halls and make out with me behind the bleachers. I thought guys would be like that. I remember talking to this guy that I thought would finally like me. After two weeks and I guess too many conversations with me gushing on about- me, my likes, my interests, he found some other girl who would listen to him and only open her mouth for his tongue. So, I learned to be quiet, learned to not be too much. Too much me.

 

I know better now. At least I think I do. I pick myself back up off the floor and look at myself. I used to try to imagine every age of myself, and what they would think of me right now. But all I see when I look in the mirror is, me. Every mistake, every accident, every achievement has been poured into making me. Sure, I can show the surface level, I like pink I work part time at a salon my favorite food is pasta I like hiking but behind the dating app profile is me, a whole person, who has lived and learned and loves. I love. And that's always been me,  

 

I grab my purse and head towards the door, breathing in and out before I push it open and I see him. Daniel, just finishing up ordering at the counter. Before I can let my mind tell me anything else I go over to where he has moved to the pickup station and blurt out "Hi. My name is Amber, and I think you're cute."

He looks at me totally flustered, and I think oh god, I have completely bombarded this man and now he thinks I am insane. Seriously what have I done what kind of crazy person just goes up and-

"Order for Daniel!" The barista shouts from the counter next to us. He turns and grabs two coffee cups and offers me one, and a shy blush begins appearing on his cheeks. 

"Vanilla latte, almond milk because you're allergic. I'm Daniel, and I think you're cute too."