[ WP ] You are 18 years old , and you 're writing your autobiography for your entire life . Write only page 147 .

He did n't look like anything special. I mean, his style was as generic as they come, but there was something different about him. I could almost feel the connection that we had. Apparently, he did n't, because he walked right by me in that stupid Starbucks line where I waited for my shitty, over-priced coffee latte bullshit. 
 
 As much as I tried to forget him, I could n't. At night, I would go to bed thinking about him, and then wake up from a dream about laying with him and I could smell him on my sheets. 
 
 Life had become a constant nightmare knowing that I would forever remain incomplete, and he did n't even know who I was.
