I like someone so much that I want to hide him in my pocket so that no one can touch or look at him. But he is not a thing, and I cannot hide it casually. He is so good-looking, and so many girls like him. I often make trouble with him. Who did he laugh more and talk more with today, who did he go out to eat with, and how late did he get home? Some things, the tighter you hold them, the faster they escape. I know that this is a disease, but I would rather wait to cut off this hand than learn to let go or let you go.