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My journal rests on the nightstand next to the bed I hardly sleep in. I'm tempted to get these thoughts out of my head. About cinnamon and freckles and the most beautiful name. It physically pains me that I can't do that anymore. Maybe I need some fresh air.

I drive around the backroads with no purpose but to drive. More than anything I'd like to see her. I saw her not even twelve hours ago, but even if I saw her twelve seconds ago I'd need to see her again.

I pull up at a little park. There are two figures near the slide. The little boy can't be more than five or six.

The other is the woman I've spent my summer fawning over.

I consider getting out and striking up a conversation. I know if I do, though, it will definitely seem like I'm a stalker.

I just can't win with her.