I saw her for just a fleeting second, and, no, it was not love. It was melancholy, for I knew I would never see this girl again. She was gorgeous in that she was hideous and unrefined, and I couldn't help but wonder how a girl like her could come to be. Her muddy, dark eyes caught mine, and, for a moment, we stared into each other's souls. In mine, she saw the vast intricacies of my simplicity, and in hers I saw the expansive tundra of a hating nature. We grasped onto the prefaces of our souls and linked, and then, just like that, the world pulled us apart and we were separated, isolated, alone.
I wanted to turn around, to run back, to cry out for this girl—this girl whose name I did not know. I wanted to reach out into the distant void and catch a hold of her, and I never wanted to let go. I wanted to know her. I wanted to know how she was born, how she had lived, how she would die. I needed the knowledge and wisdom that swirled around that girl like a blizzard in January, and yet I never did turn back.
I merely kept on walking.
And inside of me grew a deep, dark depression, because I knew that fate would not allow us to meet again. It was out of my hands at that point, and it would be left up to someone else to reach out and ask that girl "why?" and "how?" and "if?"—and all those other questions associated with such concentrated spite.
I saw her for just a fleeting second. It was not love. I could not love that. It was not my love.
But it was just as rare.