I ran into her on the street one day for the first time in years. She was small, cunning, a hopeless romantic. I could see from her face to her waist and right down to her feet that she had fears bigger than her, though she wouldn’t admit. She’d changed a little or a lot, but what difference did it make, she was still beautiful.
She told me of her late nights, her long walks, her wasted afternoons spent looking in the mirror and contemplating her next move. “I’m always tired,” she said, even though the dark spots beneath her eyes spoke for themselves. She talked and talked, though she needed not explain herself; she was what she was, she is who she is.
We used to be best friends, her and I, until she packed her bags and moved far, far away. Deep down, under the layers of years that constructed the time we’d spent apart, we were still best friends, unbeknownst to ourselves until now. She’d smile when I told her she hadn’t changed one bit, though we both knew very well it wasn’t true.
She was in love, with a boy far, far away; he ceased to acknowledge her existence. She deserves better, probably the world, but she’ll always settle for less. She never hesitated to say “I miss you” and her words, soft and slow, flowed from her mouth with utmost honesty. She was genuine, the real deal.
Her life had been a series of black and white, and her days were scattered with diamonds and stones. She never gave up, but always let go. Her days were numbered by the amount of time until her next adventure. The world was her oyster, the ball was in her court, her canvas was blank, her dreams were big. And can she do it? Of course she can. She can do anything.
As I waved goodbye to her, she stopped me short so as to hug me before we parted. Perhaps it was the last time I’d see her for years, maybe the last time I’d see her ever. She doesn’t come around often, which is unfortunate when you possess the ability to light up someone’s life like she does.
And just like that, she changed me.
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