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Each week Critic wants to hear from you if you’re struggling to approach the man or woman of your dreams. Does she always sit on that front row seat and give the lecturer far more attention than you’re comfortable with? Does he stroll past your window each morning and your only attempts at getting his attention have been taking a little longer to put clothes on?

Flick your stories to crush@critic.co.nz

I’ve always liked elfish looking men. I’m not sure — it may be their elegance, their likeness to certain oddly attractive cartoon characters that I secretly fell in love with as a child, or just that these types of men seem like a naturally made rebellion against constructed ideas of what men “should” look like.

For a long time, you weren’t one of these men. But there was still something about you. I first noticed you on campus about a year ago, and I think that’s when you noticed me too. Or did you? I swear we locked eyes and there was a feeling of recognition, of mutual eye-crush establishment. I liked your eyes and your style, but I didn’t like your friends. They were so unashamedly “Law” types, they weren’t you — you seemed more like a lone wolf who charmed any pack he came across but never stayed put.

After a period of absence, you drifted from my mind. But one day, as I was gloomily staring out my window, something caught my eye: a flash of golden locks. Your cheekbones, so defined, sliced the air as you ran by — their edge matched my sharp eyes. Where were you going? What were you running from? I held my arms wide but you ran past, determined in your salty running gear.

Again, I didn’t see you for a while after this. But the other day, at the supermarket, there you were — at the New World with a new look. I couldn’t believe how you had evolved. In your long green coat with your piercing eyes and tousled blonde hair flowing around your face, you had somehow become my elf. This enduring eye-crush has changed. Now I lie waiting for you in my op-shop velvet dress (please ignore its vague smell of someone else’s grandma). You’ve cast your spell; come undo the mess (me) you’ve created.