Dear Stanford,

I want to be your friend. No, I want you to want me to be your friend. I want this feeling to be mutual, because I don't want to be your biggest fan, or you mine. We're both better than that. We're capable of being real people with each other, right?

Before that night, I really had no idea what you thought of me, or if you even thought of me at all. I didn't know you listened to and remembered the things I said. I thought I was the only one who paid any attention, but I'm glad I'm wrong about that.

You surprised me a lot, and I'm glad I let myself be surprised. I want to thank you for it: thank you for talking to me when we were both probably comfortable with silence; thank you for being honest with me, even though I struggled to tell you what you wanted to know. I was afraid to tell you the whole truth, because if I said it, the illusion I've so carefully construed would collapse. I think I did break when I told you what I did on 92nd Street, just a little. That was my wall of distance, of space, of casual. I've never told anybody that before.

I want to be friends with you, because I want to be able to challenge your perception of me, and to show you that I am more than just the numbers that define me. I want you to challenge me too, and I want this because I want to know you.

You don't need to hear this from me, but you're going to be so successful someday. I wish you the best, and I'll see you around.

xoxo,
Yale