What I Once Called Love: The Drafts

To the Beautiful Stranger

It's been roughly a month since our meeting, and you've resided in my mind ever since.

I was coming to terms with my lack of connections to that small town. In fact, its very permanence seemed to only exist in the rearview mirror of my life. I had planned to leave all my memories there, but you came along, and suddenly, I wasn't so quick to close the door on my past.

Almost instantly, I knew there was more to your story the the mere cover art everyone else saw. I found myself wanting to read each and every page with the same diligence as I had my favorite novel. You intrigued me, a rarity in and of itself.

The attraction had little to do with your looks, although your tongue-in-cheek grin was not something most women could resist. It wasn't your intelligence either, despite your sarcastic wit exposing your affinity for literature. No, my interest was in your familiarity.

Though we had just met, our conversations carried on like we had been acquainted for years. We discussed every topic that came to mind for the better half of an hour, and I felt a bit of comfort at knowing I wasn't the only outsider in the room. It was pure bliss. Our smiles reflected the small pleasure long after we both had departed for the evening.

Weeks have passed, and all I can think about is that feeling. Somehow in the crowded wave of strangers, we had found each other. A part of me wonders if we'll meet again; another just wants to know if you felt it too.