We? Oui.

"I think he likes you."
I most certainly hope so. I can't stand the stolen glances, sloppy hidden smiles, the slight fear in your eyes, the rigidity of your body and the language it conveys when I hit your radar. I'd like to believe that I'm making things up. It's almost like a cruel joke that seems to drag on infinitesimally. I'm not laughing. Well, sometimes I can't help myself so I do. On rare occasions.
Time is running out, like the grains of sand that beach-goers pick up and hold vainly in their hands, hoping to get a minute feel of stability and majesty but hoping otherwise at the same time. In the end the sand spills from between their fingers, to be carried away with the melody of the wind, to settle back down on the ground, only to be kicked up and scattered by passers-by.

 I tried to give you up but I'm addicted.

You're  something beautiful, a contradiction.

I'd never dream of faking this fixation.

The hands of the clock are incessant, persistant, stubborn. Another page is about to be ripped off from the face of the calendar, leaving it bare naked with only a solitary piece of paper for company to last for 31 days.
How time plays tricks on you. How it carefully and artistically deceives you, lulling you into false security, whispering little assurances when needed. A small word here, a graceful peck there and you're under it's spell. Good luck getting out from it's sticky web of lies. All those times spent with the people that hold paint brushes and color your life with their effortless strokes of happiness, working together on the potrait with furious intensity until one day you wake up and BAM! They're gone. Just like that. No, actually they're out there somewhere, just out of your reach and jurisdiction to make them be at your beck and call again. Then you start over, painstakingly. Strangers at square one. And you realize that all the hard work put into that masterpiece accounts for nothing because the potrait is only half-finished.
Deep down I realize that nothing might transpire. And this might only be this, nothing further, nothing else to fill. But I wish differently. An envious-conniving little bitch, that's what time is. And what is up with never-ending holidays that conveniently fall on Mondays? I may not see you again after December. And there's no point thinking the opposite, given the gargantuan proportions of the campus and the impossible class schedules. What are the odds that we'd be stuck in the same class again? Let's see: ZERO. Le sigh.
But in my dark corner of isolation, I'm silently praying for a miracle.