Another love

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
She would capture other hearts, would catch dreams in the palm of her hand, frail beautiful glimpses of emotions, like a smiling child chasing a dragonfly even though he has no need for it.

Submitted: August 31, 2014

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Submitted: August 31, 2014

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  I suppose this could be considered a love story. It`s certainly a tale of a boy and a girl – a promising, charming, little symphony of feelings being played everywhere – in the centre, in the background, in the distant corners of this great canvass we call life. But wise men would say it doesn`t matter where it happens, or if it even takes a concrete shape at all, as long as it makes at least someone feel something unfelt before, teaches a lesson, gives a hope, creates a memory.
it doesn`t matter the time, it doesn`t count which place, it doesn`t concern anyone what are the unseen, blind and foolish steps which lead to it, people fall in love.
This is more or less, subtly or grossly, what happened to our dear feminine character. She did know, every single second of every passing year, that her reality was somehow depending on that particular boy. Why him? Neither she nor I could tell you. He was no Adonis, no polished heart-stealer or dream-catcher, yet he prosaically stole her heart and caught her dreams. For she was a dreamer, that one.
She would capture other hearts, would catch dreams in the palm of her hand, frail beautiful glimpses of emotions, like a smiling child chasing a dragonfly even though he has no need for it. What would the child do with the dragonfly? And what would she do with the others? She might have been a little too selfish to be endearing, but she was charming. The sort of charm that perfumed her every gesture, a fragrance of purity and arrogance combined with an appealing kind of foolishness. For only fools fall in love so easily, just like a swimmer throwing himself into the waves without the slightest doubt because he needs the freedom, the washing away, the current.
For quite some time they did not even speak, because although she was brusque and impulsive with her friends, she was shy when it came to things that mattered to her. This is the fault with caring – you`re afraid to lose and if you fear loss, you probably won`t gain either. She didn’t want to face deception, but didn`t want to let go of the matter nonetheless. A difficult and contradictory child, you see.
And then, one spring evening, he spoke to her. She couldn`t tell if she had done anything remarkable, worthy of drawing attention, but he called after her nonetheless.
‘Goodnight.’

He also mentioned her name, the sweetest of whispers it seemed to her. Not that it mattered. She was too stunned to reply. He had probably spoken to her before, but nothing of importance. This, this was the sort of conversation meant to be remembered.
it`s too much, or maybe too little to mean something of its own. But the spell written on the smiles, the verses sung by the stories could not be forgotten, tuned out like an offending sound.
 It`s sad none of us can forget what hurts the most.
He was boisterous, flamboyant, arrogant, just like her sometimes. But she thought she could read herself on him when she was quiet, sad, disappointed by everything. She thought he could feel exactly the same inner need for loneliness and that he`d be lonely with her, lost in their comfortable silence or bubbling laughter. He made her believe that. He told her he was alone, he confessed that he needed her more than he needed anything.
no one is, or should be, that good an actor. He must have cared, but love is a moth`s flap of wings.
She thought she wanted to kiss him, she thought he wanted to kiss her. And it was probably true, I cannot tell exactly what was going on in these character`s hearts.
But he ran away.
She likes to think she released him, that she let him go because she no longer needed him. But then it would not bring tears to her eyes to watch him run around with others, it would not make her frown to see him laugh without her, it would not make her sick to see him pretend.
But she runs away too, laughing with others, pretending.
And this is also another love story, perhaps truer than the first one.


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