"Hello:" A Daydream

She has a mad crush on this guy from her English class.
He has eyes the color of a robin's egg, spackled with green.
His voice is deep and slow as a sad melody.
He looks like the sky on a day when the sun has warmed it to a light crisp.
He sits two seats away, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.
She daydreams–– sometimes, not all the time–– about how it would feel if he turned around and smiled. At her. He has a dimple in the corner of his left cheek. Perhaps it would peek out. At her.
And sometimes, but only sometimes, she thinks about what it'd be like to reach over and hand him a note that just says, "hello." Because that's all she has to say. It's not much, but it's so much, all at once.
He writes poetry on the back of his black math notebook, but no one knows. She's not some kind of stalker. She just knows because she sits two seats away from him. Which is close enough, and yet not close enough.
She doesn't daydream all the time, only sometimes.
But when she does, she imagines him in her kitchen. In the little house she'll have one day, the one with the red door.
He puts warm arms tight around her, pulling her close, safe. Her head rests heavy against his chest.
He breaths in the sweet, soapy scent of the curve of her neck, and says "hello," low in her ear.