The one that got away? Is that real? Did they actually "get away," or did we let them get away? Did we have a choice in the matter, or is “fate” actually a real thing?

Is it an underlying emotion of unwavering feelings? Is it that ingenious mechanism that happens within us that makes us fuzzy and giggly?

In a world with very little face to face communication, many people have had a hard time knowing if another person is truly interested in them. This makes it hard to ask someone out on a date, or even know if you are crossing the line. To better understand the conscious and subconscious behaviors that we often rely on in regards to attraction it is important to read further. When you understand the signs of attraction, then you can easily know when to push forward or pull back to ensure no one's heart is broken.

After reading the letter I thought that Hoon was just scared. His deportation case wasn’t looking good at all, and his ability to find good employment while being labeled an ‘illegal alien’ was getting more and more impossible. Hoon’s always taken it upon himself to take care of me in every way. I know the pain of not being able to live up to his own expectations must have influenced his decision quite a bit.

How can four letters explain the depth of my feelings for you?

Most people enter into relationships with an eye towards what they can get out of them, rather than what they can put into them. It is very romantic to say that we were “NOTHING” until that special someone came along. But this puts an incredible pressure on our partners to be someone that they are not. Not wanting to “let us down,” they try very hard to live up to our expectations until they cannot anymore. They can no longer complete our picture of them and fill the roles they have been assigned. Our partners eventually begin to show who they really are, show their true nature and it is about this time that we realize and complain that they have changed.

I look out of my window. It's beautiful, watching the sun pass through and find its way to my face and making me feel so warm. I close eyes to absorb all of it. I stare at the blue sky that seems in unison with the bright red and brown leaves of the trees that seem to be marking the start of Autumn. I sip my coffee, taking long pauses before my next sip, pauses long enough to allow me to savor the moment but short enough to not drink cold coffee. How I hated cold coffee.

August 15th, 1993 - Regent Hotel - Our first kiss

You buy your own cigarettes now. It’s a habit I like to think I helped start. Watching you pull out that tan cardboard box and pack them expertly is one of my biggest accomplishments. I’ve trained you well. But as proud as I am, I’m beginning to see that my time with you is running out, much like that tan pack in your front pocket. Your addiction used to depend on me, and I was unashamed to fuel it. I found myself buying extra packs at the store, spending money I didn’t have on items I wouldn’t even get to use. But those four-to-six minutes alone with you on the balcony were satisfying, to say the least. Even when we didn’t speak, it was worth it just to watch you in the moonlight. To see your eyes scan the parking lot, to imagine where your mind goes, to envy the cancer-stick you bring to your lips every 10 seconds or so. Those seven dollars I’d never see again were made worth it. I had something you wanted, even if I truly have nothing you want. And I could trade the tiny white cylinders for four-to-six minutes of your time, because it was what you needed. Each pack represented twenty chances to pick your brain, twenty chances to guilt you out of your jacket, and twenty chances to have you to myself. Even you began to recognize what those minutes meant. You’d use them similarly: when you wanted to talk to me one-on-one, or when you’d use the chance to light my cigarette like a true gentleman. Because “pretty girls don’t light their own cigarettes”.

Roundhouse romance.

Hey,

Dear J,