"Allow me to ask you the question: Why?". That's what I asked her. Not: "What are you afraid of?" or "What's this fear you have?" because I already knew those answers. Her eyes at that moment, they had a big shade of fear, but at the same time a small shade of happiness. Finally someone asked something else, not always those stupid questions that she tried to ignore.
The time between my question and her actual reaction seemed to last for ages, but when those "ages" were over she didn't started to talk, she just fell into my arms, crying, laughing, screaming, everything at the same time.
YOU ARE READING
She.
PoetryIt's about her, that one girl. Everybody knows her name, but no one knows her. (a collection of short texts)
