The Unpredictability of Love

Walking back to his car was when he spotted the woman. Sitting on a bench in front of the burbling fountain. She was writing in a little blue journal, a somber and reflective look on her face. The wind blew her hair in all different directions, and he wondered how she still wrote unfazed.

Pausing, she bit her lip and looked up. Their eyes locked, and a smile illuminated her face, as if he was the million-dollar idea she had been waiting for all her life. After acknowledging him with a slight nod of her head, she resumed writing passionately and fiercely.

He approached his car and debated going back to talk to her. There was a haunting loveliness about her and his soul was immediately smitten. Who is she? What was she writing? Why is she alone?

Turning around, he walked back to the bench, but it was empty. She was gone.

It felt as if someone had punched his chest and left a gaping hole, waiting to be filled by someone he never knew he needed. His soul knew they would never cross paths again. She was lost, just as fast as she was loved.