I thought I moved on. When I heard that he applied for a teaching position at our university, I felt like the world was too cruel to me. It always had been, and now, it felt even worse. Everything felt so nostalgic.

I remembered the time we had our first date. Nervousness runs through my veins when I met him. The chance of having a good conversation seemed impossible. We walked through the park, and I found myself walking like a child being taken for a stroll by her dad for the first time.

He told me to stop when I found a flower to pick for him. I turned to him and gave him a stern look. Then, I pick the flower and give it to him with a smile on my face. He smelled it as if it were his favorite perfume.

"Does it smell good?" I asked, tilting my head toward him to see his reaction.

He flashed a smile and patted my head.

"Not really," he said as he put the flower inside his pocket and looked into distance.

We talked and laughed a lot. A three-hour date with him has always occupied the corner of my mind, filled with thoughts and wonder.

When I got home, I immediately opened my journal and wrote about what had happened. I turned something casual into a story, and it became a novel. What else could a writer do with the love she thought she deserved, if not write about it?

He knows that I write about him. He knew exactly that it was him.

Writing because I refuse to end my feelings for nothing.

After months of silence, he finally found out about it and emailed me, saying, "I don't deserve this, but I assure you that I will be a better muse to you."

And now, he's a teacher at our university.