A sunny afternoon at the start of fall quarter. I was at the bookstore, stocking up for classes. An ill-placed stack of course readers sent me stumbling backwards into a shelf. There you were. After some hasty apologies, I gave you my hand. Little did I know, that stumble would last months longer than I thought.

That first time I saw you, I couldn’t keep my eyes away. Your alabaster skin shone in the low light of the bookstore sub-basement. My foot tapped an incessant, nervous rhythm. My vision lingered on your every button and curve.

Was it stupid to fall for you? Of course it was. We were too different, you and I. I was a Stanford freshman with wide dreams and a penchant for passive aggression. And you, you were an iClicker. There were signs, though. The way you were always asking me for input. Still…we clicked.

Until it all came crashing down. I woke up one morning, to see my roommate leaving for Physics 41, grasping your naked body. “Hey, I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t find mine, so I borrowed yours.” You didn’t say a word.

I saw you the other day, in lecture. I still go, you know. Not for the bonus points anymore, just for the hell of it. If you’re reading this, I miss you. It’s gotten easier with time. Yet, your betrayal hangs over me. Every time I press down on a mouse, the sound shoots a cold spine into my heart.

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