Dear *Hunter,

The tripod and video camera caught my eye.

You glanced over your shoulder, smiling, as you passed me – balancing the cumbersome equipment. Flustered and crimson, I tugged on my winter coat. Forgetting scarf wrapping 101. Then, I sensed an intense stare. You stood on the staircase, holding the doorknob – grinning. I reciprocated – and you disappeared.

Guilt ridden, I called my then-partner. To say “hello.” Because I just had an eye-affair with another man.

You, with your dark hair and McDreamy “beard-in-a-can” shadow. Bull-mastiff brown eyes hidden behind brown-framed glasses. And a newsboy cap? Cameraman cliché, yes?

Two dust bunnies in the wind at a large campus? Surely, we’d never meet again.

Radio class. College basement. Sounds kinky. A handful of classmates and I were outside a radio suite. Nonchalant, you moseyed around the corner. My frequency dropped.

“Hey, my edit suite is free.”

“No, thanks,” said one mate. “We have someone helping us.”

The freshmen give-away. “First year radio?”

We laughed, and you gazed at me like a rabid Bambi. “I’m Hunter.”

“Tessa,” four octaves higher than usual.

After idle chit chat, you asked about my planned major.

“Journalism. You?”

“Final year. Photojournalism.” Ah, a senior. “But, I’d better run. See you around.”

Allegedly, I was magenta while we spoke, but I claimed my rosacea flared up.

Two days later, I was Photoshopping a teacup, and I heard my instructor say, sweetly, “Of course, Hunter. Just sit at the back.”

My heart thumped to the beat of your footsteps. “Hi, Tessa.”

I squeaked, “Hi, Hunter,” and you sat four rows behind me.

A girl who’d witnessed Radio-gate whispered. “You’re red again.”

“I’m warm.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

“Don’t you have a teacup to Photoshop?”

We went from strangers to acquaintances. Over time, I learned you liked nature. I liked nature! You liked cycling? I used to have a tricycle! You were, like, so environmentally responsible. I recycle! Tell me more, Hunter, as I guzzle from my plastic water bottle.

But we never crossed the line. The let’s take this to an edit suite and see if it gets sweeter line.

Because you had a partner. I had a partner. I was fiercely faithful. So faithful, I told him about you and my feelings. I believe crushes are natural. It’s unreasonable for anyone to believe their partner won’t be attracted to other people. Issues only arise when someone acts on that temptation.

After Radio-gate, I thought ignoring was best. Because your Leo-magnetic personality transformed my brain cells into mush, and I needed them-those cells for reporting stories and stuff. You, with your tall, dark, and handsome combo. Sprinkling empathy, sparkles, and Ultimate Frisbee. Couldn’t you be unlikable? Rather than so you-y?

Eventually, you morphed into that Yellow Pages Everywhere Guy, who was – well – everywhere. For example, the time I couldn’t find my passcard? You swooped in like Batman.

“Forgot your card?”

“It’s somewhere.” Like a Batman-Ninja, you swiped your card. Green light. Door disengaged. “Thank you, Hunter.”

“You’re welcome. I must go. Gotham needs … I mean, see you later,” and you fled into the stairwell, either to free fall – or to Parkour.



Fast forward. The entire journalism faculty attended the seniors’ thesis presentations. Your yearlong agony – blood, sweat, and chocolate covered espresso beans – was nearly over.

You entered, stage left. My friends elbowed me, giggling like twelve-year olds. Seriously, children, grow up, and let me watch my crush talk about his documentary while I drink my milk. True story.

Your speech wrapped with Oscar-like “Thank yous.” I’d been on the promo team for your documentary. Many seniors thanked the freshmen who helped with promotion. However, my “Merci” must have succumbed on the cutting room floor. But I understood.

Because your partner was there.

During a break, you introduced us. My first impression? No helium voice. Genuine. Sincere. And pretty. Then, like Batwoman, she disappeared.

After the presentations, the two-hundred capacity lobby overflowed with four-hundred people. Servers squeezed through with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Somehow, you crowd-surfed towards me to chat.

The lobby cleared out for a late afternoon after party.

“You’re coming, right?” you asked.

“No, I’m going back to the college,” I said. “I need to pick up camera equipment.”

“Leave it in an editing suite,” you joked. “You should come.”

“I can’t. Plus, I’m pretty tired.”

As the seniors gathered to leave, you called my name. We waved, and you were gone. Hunter, I really wanted to go, but I really couldn’t.

My last college sighting of you? The awards night. A super awkward night. I was there with then-partner. I crumbled under the tension. My panic attack dropped the curtain on the evening.

And when I saw you for the first time in four years? I wanted to hug you. Instead, I awkwardly fumbled over my words.

But the final time?

You, the photojournalist. Me, the reporter. Different media outlets.

I was running late, as usual. Panting, I handed my recorder to the soundboard guy.

You approached the board, also to plug in. “Hi, Tessa.”

“Hunter.”

“Running late?”

“A tad,” I said, adjusting my hot pink sleeveless blouse. “Nothing’s happening, though. So, technically, I’m early.”

You smirked. “I captured you running up the ramp while shooting b-roll.”

“I’m sure you’ll edit that out.”

“Yeah. I’d better get back. We’ll talk after?”

“Sure.” But we never did.

That night, to my horror, I watched your story. Complete with a flash of hot pink in the background. Running up a ramp.

You captured me, Hunter.

For real.

Always,

Tessa

**************

*Names changed for privacy

