Tuesday
Dearest Xiaoyu,
May I call you Xiao?
I often hear your friends call you by that name. I hope that you won't be offended if I refer to you as such, though I am neither a friend nor acquaintance of yours. As a matter of fact, it seems to me that you take pleasure in ignoring me, acting as though my existence is in itself intangible. This is the only way I can speak to you without rousing suspicion and discomfort on your part.
Do you know that I watch you?
You must know by now, being the intelligent young woman you are. I'm nearly certain I saw you glimpse the black hood of my sweatshirt behind the gymnasium bleachers yesterday. I use hoods to disguise myself from you; you would probably recognize me right away if my face wasn't shielded from view. I was crouched there during the entire period, observing your gym class as they played volleyball.
Volleyball is a sport meant for the outdoors, but the radiance of your presence was enough to convince me that we were located on some distant beach beneath a shining sun. Your optimistic attitude is a sunbeam that's far from oblique, and I respect you for being able to maintain such an outlook in a world like this.
Do you see how much I admire you, Xiao?
Enough about the events of yesterday; let me tell you how I see you now as I write. Your straight black hair is pulled up into two sleek pigtails, which rest against your shoulders on either side. Your fair face has relaxation and happiness etched into every soft curve. Your bright brown eyes are currently fixed on the friend you're walking beside, a slightly taller girl with short copper hair and freckles lining her sharp nose.
The two of you are dressed alike, in pleated plaid skirts, white knee socks, shiny brown shoes, and short-sleeved white shirts with a school emblem stitched into the right shoulders. It's the Mishima Industrial High uniform; you've brought it along with you to every tournament you've ever competed in, which is how I recognize it.
That's how we first met, after all; the Iron Fist tournaments act as a medium for our suffocated and otherwise nonexistent friendship, a friendship that I subconsciously wish could evolve into something more.
Your innocence is clearly evident as you giggle at something your companion says, exposing your appealing smile to the humid air.
Has anyone ever told you your smile resembles a bar of white chocolate?
It does, to the extremity of the likeness.
Do you like chocolate, Xiao?
I know you do; you like it the most in cookies. And, of course, you can't have cookies without milk; that's what you always say. To me, you are the epitome of the milk you speak of; your mere presence makes me feel complete.
I think that I'm in love with you, even though I don't know you. Perhaps it's better this way.
The pink gloss smoothed across your slender lips is visible from where I'm sitting, glinting in the sunlight as you walk. Don't you know you don't need to wear makeup to appear beautiful?
You aren't like other women; they cover their imperfections with pounds upon pounds of foundation and distracting colorful eye shadow, when all they truly want is to be accepted for who they are inside, the smothered soul hiding beneath the plastic.
You hardly need to be concerned about your appearance; the purity of your personality would be enough to make you pretty if you weren't already so.
Can you see me behind the metal sliding board in the playground across the street, Xiao?
I doubt you're even paying attention to what's beyond the chain link fence in front of me; you're too preoccupied with being young, bouncing up and down and laughing with your friend.
What? You want to know who I am?
I can't tell you my name, but I can say that my eyes are only for you, and that their brilliant hue divulges a past of mystery and crescent moons.
You shouldn't be concerned about my identity; I could never dream of harming you, for that would be a most lucid nightmare. In retrospect, I am only a few years your senior, though your maturity would make strangers think otherwise if we were, by chance, seen walking side by side, hands interlocked.
Not yet, I'm afraid; we have only begun to play this jovial game, where you and I are the pawns and destiny and fate are the competitors. I know you aren't easily defeated, but perhaps you could let me win just this once so we can be together.
I saw you fight in the most recent tournament. Your movements, though attacks, are so graceful and well-practiced, it almost looks like you're dancing around your opponent when you fight. You're agile, and your artillery of moves is as unpredictable when it comes to combinations as your attire; none of the others can so much as challenge you in my opinion.
Can you see me grinning as I scribble out this note?
I hope that I don't come off as dangerous. Stalker is such a strong term.
Your admirer.