You didn't love her.
You didn't love how her hair had an ever-lasting turmoil with itself and flopped from a side to an opposite, enhancing her sharply carved cheekbones.
You didn't love her when she bit her lip when concentrating too hard.
You didn't love how she always leaned forward to write something down and how her elbows stuck out awkwardly, or how she self-consciously stuck them to her body after noticing.
You didn't love her when she was struggling to reach something and giggled when she gave up.
You didn't love her when her clothes were old and crinkly-crunkly and her hair was messy and her face was clean of her shield from the world that she usually held strong.
You didn't love her when she walked in the sunshine in front of you with her hands swinging so buoyantly that you couldn't help but want to stay afloat instead of drown in the ocean of yourself.
You didn't love her when she looked at you, with her arms swinging wildly, wondering if you noticed how she was wearing make-up that day the way you liked it.
You didn't love her when she was trying to get you to.
You certainly didn't love her when she was looking after you, painstakingly in love and hyper-aware of everything you do.
But you love her now. And she doesn't love you.
