You've been making paper planes for weeks—scribbling down everything you never had the courage to say to Trevor. Things you wanted to scream, to whisper, to beg him to understand. But instead, you folded your thoughts into soft corners and sharp lines, letting the wind carry them somewhere out of reach. Somewhere you hoped he might catch them, one day.

You couldn’t stop writing songs about him. Sad songs. The kind that felt too heavy for your chest, the kind that cracked at your voice every time you let them out. It was pathetic, maybe. But you still hit snooze every morning just to dream of him a little longer. Because dreaming was easier than remembering the last time you talked—how fast it all slipped through your fingers.

He was probably out there, living life, changing, growing into someone you wouldn’t even recognize anymore. You’d changed too. You felt like a new version of yourself, stronger in some ways—but softer where he used to be. And still, the question haunted you: Am I ever on your mind?

You hoped this would reach him. Maybe not the paper planes, not the songs—but something. Anything. You wanted him to know you were still here, still thinking of him when the days got quiet. Still writing about him when you should’ve been moving on.

You were young, and yeah—you were dumb. Maybe he saw that. Maybe that’s why he left. But if this was a pitch, you were throwing your best one now. Fast, honest, real.

You didn’t know if you'd ever see him again.

But that didn’t stop you from shouting. From writing. From hoping he'd hear you.