And one morning, he did open his eyes. He did see. I just wasn’t the one he saw.

It's 4 pm and I still haven't left our tiny Upper East Side apartment. It doesn't matter if I'm at home, in my office, in Paris, Barbados or New York - Monday means workday. Being a freelance writer sure has it ups and downs: a gigantic "up" is that I can work from anywhere in the world, a pretty big "down" is that there's no such thing as a vacation in my job description. Yeah, "freelance" sure is a sneaky word - I'm free to go wherever I please, but I'm never... free. Though obviously, the ups certainly overrides the downs.

At the moment I'm writing a blogger's travel guide to Amsterdam, a city I've never been to, but after reading all of Sabrina's best tips I so want to go! I always get that feeling while writing these city guides - I also desperately want to go to Dublin, Prague, Vienna and all the other places I've featured in Sofis mode. But I know I shouldn't complain, and I don't - I'm more than excited that I'm finally, finally here in New York City. I'd better get a move on with this article so I can get out of this apartment before I gets dark!

Last week, I wrote a guest blog post for Maria Elyse of First Impressions. I hope all of you will check out her blog - not only is she an adorable and intelligent girl with amazing style, at the moment she's engaged tons of interesting guest bloggers while she's away on camp. Could be a great opportunity to discover your new favorite blogs, right?

Since I want According to Annika to be a place where I gather and showcase my writing, I thought I'd share my guest blogger story with you here as well. I hope you all like it! (And oh, someone asked me if this really happened. I guess when I call it a "story" it might sound like I made it up. Well, I didn't. All of my columns are stories from my life, as true as they can be without me exploiting other people who never asked to be a part of them.)

I was his best friend and he was mine.

Late every night we took turns calling each other, and we never hung up. Literally. All through the night we talked and talked, whispering conversations under the covers, sixteen blocks between us. Our whispers only fell silent when we were both asleep, the plastic receivers still pressed tightly against our cheeks.

Then he would come strolling into the classroom the next morning, tangled hair and slighty puffy eyes, always ten minutes late. A quick glance in my direction, a hint of a smile.

I didn’t mind that he sat down at a desk across the room, even though the seat next to mine was free. Not at all. I still knew: I was the reason he was late. He’s opted out of sleep to listen to my voice, my thoughts, me.

Months passed by and the nightly conversations continued. Autumn became winter and we never ran out of topics. Of course we didn’t – we could talk about everything.

Well. Almost everything.

All except how it felt to sit on his bed, listening to him play his latest composition on the piano, barely able to make out the melody over the sound of my own heartbeats. How I always accepted more bitter instant coffee, only so I could have the chance to swiftly brush my fingertips against his as he handed the cup over.

I never mentioned the dreams.

Instead, I waited. Somehow certain that one morning he would open his eyes and finally see. Then he would take my hands in his and sigh: ”All this time… I can’t believe I never realized - ”

And one morning, he did open his eyes. He did see. I just wasn’t the one he saw.

The girl whose hands he took in his was my best girlfriend, Mia. She was beautiful and he was in love and my heart no longer cared to beat. It simply couldn’t see the point.

I did everything I could. Pretended to fall in love with a friend of his to make him jealous. Bought a new pair of jeans (the skinny kind). Started wearing lipstick.

But junior high ended and he never called me again. I guess he was super busy.

The years passed and I don’t know if the wounds healed, but at least they were replaced by new ones. The pain caused by all that never happened faded, hidden behind new sorrows, new rejections and disappointments.

I had almost forgotten, I truly think I had, when one afternoon we bumped into each other at the dairy aisle of our local grocery store. It was right before Easter, the year before last. He was a decade older and I guess I was too, but he looked the way he always had. Tangled hair, puffy eyes, like he still didn’t get enough sleep.

He said: ”We have to grab a coffee sometime.”

”Sure”, I said. ”I’ll call you.”

But I never did.

I’ve just been super busy.