Fickle Vignettes

Vignette of Eyes Meeting

It wasn't love, but I saw him across the fog. And it felt like popping candy. Electric blue; skies crackled between leaves gently shaking a way above us. His parent's car must have broken down here, and he was leaning against the cool metal. 

If I took a step, the light fog that had risen from the forest ground would rise and roll away from me, so I didn't move. My bare feet sent chills from the damp tarpaulin of the tent. My fingers were cold tendrils licking around my left arm, wrapping it tightly. 

I almost wish there had been a smell, like a singe of raspberry drifting through the morning air. They say memories can be triggered by smell. Captured feelings in glass bottles on a wooden shelf in your brain.

Our eyes met.

Something about it. How he looked so unlike any other person. How everything was so small yet so immense. How I felt like nobody else but myself. It wasn't love, but I knew. I knew it was magic. A heart-wrenchingly mundane magic.