I'm on a muddy yellow bus coming back from camp. I'm twelve and so are you. Before I left for camp, I had imagined that it would just be me and three, maybe four, other kids I hadn't yet met, running around all summer, getting into trouble. Playing and just enjoying our summer. You know, typical guy stuff. In the end it was me and this girl. That's you. As long as we're still on the bus it's like we're still at camp. Once we reached the assembly point where our parents would be waiting for us, the camp would end. We still wear our purple camp shirts. The aroma of the bus still reminds of wild nature. We still smell like pine. It was an amazing weekend with you. The feeling I have right now is confusing, a feeling I have never experienced before. I like you and you like me and I like you more than you, but I'm not sure whether or not you like me "more than me". You never said it, so I kept the thought to myself and didn't mention it all summer. I'm happy to enjoy the microscopic miracle of a girl choosing to talk to me and choosing to do it again the next day and so on. A smart, comedic girl who wants to date me. A girl who, if I say something stupid to make her laugh, is willing to say something twice even three times as stupid to make me laugh. A girl who isn't quite normal, capable of being a little strange, but also wise sometimes in a way I couldn't imagine. A girl who likes to read books that aren't assigned to her, whose curly blonde hair is often streaked with a parting from the tie she uses to hold it up when it's still wet. How lucky could I be? Back in the real world allowed by the field... middle of paper... nothing. I won't say whether what I learned is true or not. I'm simply expressing what I've learned. I told you something. It was just for you and you wasted no time telling everyone. This led me to realize that I would have to cut out the “middleman” because everyone would find out anyway. People can't turn around and tell everyone, because everyone already knows, I told them. Unfortunately this means there is no room in my life for you or someone like you. Is he sad? Obviously. But this is a sadness that I have chosen. It is easier to deal with loneliness than betrayal. Sometimes I really wish I could say this is the story of how I got on the bus as a boy and got off a more masculine, hardened, mature man. But it's not the truth. The truth is that I got into that yellow four-wheeled car as a kid. And I never got out of it. I haven't done it yet.