I've never heard of her, or seen her, but I know.
The breeze bringing in warmth with it sometimes tells me, the rustling of the leaves whisper to me, a feeling, like there's a silhouette lingering around.
Why am I suddenly beginning to feel the suffering of every stray dog whimper by the street, or the treacherous death of the mother while giving birth to life?
This cannot be empathy, for I daresay, am not capable of such a noble emotion; with the pangs, it most definitely is hurt.
Hurt? Yes, the thought of that one person in pain, whom I only know by her connection to my blood flow; oh how my heart aches, even considering the merest possibility that somewhere, someone who is surely about to crash into me for the first time may be out there in pain, right this moment?
Does this feeling mean that I'm being pulled closer now, I'm almost about to reach that love? Or is it just life emphasizing to me, that it will never be spare of miseries?
Thud.
"Oh, I'm sorry." A woman.
Is that warmth of the wind I feel rushing by?
No. It's mixed with vanilla, from her hair, perhaps.
Is that rustling of the leaves?
No. Greener. Her eyes.
"Miss! MADAME!"
No use.
She's already hurrying away until all I see now is just a silhouette turning around the corner;
