The first time I saw her, I didn't think she's beautiful.
I thought: I need her.
She didn't even look at me. Didn't smile. She was just sitting on the floor outside some store, legs crossed, drawing something in a notebook. Her hair was messy, like she'd been in a fight with the wind and let it win. She had these big headphones on like the world didn't deserve her ears.
I stood there too long. I know that. Something about her made my skin feel too tight.
She looked like she didn't belong to anyone. And that made me want to be the first. Not in a cute, romantic way. In a mine way. In a you don't even know me but I'll make you remember me way.
I didn't want to talk to her. I wanted to be inside her story. I wanted her to draw me. Think about me. Break for me.
Her shoelaces were untied. I imagined tying them for her. I imagined pulling them tighter, tighter, until she couldn't leave.
I didn't even know her name, but I already hated the idea of someone else knowing it before me.
She looked up for one second. Just one. Our eyes met. She blinked. I stopped breathing.
That's when I decided: If she ever looked at me like that again, I'd make sure she never looked away.
It wasn't love. It was a need to own softness. A hunger that dressed itself up as something gentle.
I told myself it was fate. But really, I just saw someone who hadn't learned to run yet.