She’s sitting there. Just sitting there. The light’s shining brightly behind her so she almost seems blurred and a little transparent. You might think you could see through her, but you could never see through her.

She doesn’t notice me, and maybe that’s okay. Her eyes don’t find mine, and maybe that, too, is okay. I don’t know how I might handle that connection again.

There’s a paperback in her hands that she’s slowly reading, soaking in every word like she’d never read it before. Her hair is hanging in her face like a waterfall that I want to bathe in.

I can feel the cracks in my heart throb. I can feel the blood in my veins race. I can feel my brain pulse and I still want her. I miss her.

But I turn away. She no longer feels eyes on her so I’m sure she won’t look to see me. And that’s better.

She’s better.

But only as a picture.


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