And then as I turned around, there she was across the street completely engrossed in what happened to be a Dylan Spark, flipping the pages as if they were made of glass. Intensity building in her eyes, as though the next page would shatter her into pieces. She was keeping it as casual as it could have been; in blue. A blue dress it was. All that was worth, happened to be between the book and her; as the coffee lay cold, craving for attention, like an ignored child.  I stood there awestruck by what I did not know. Of how much I wanted to walk over and say a word, there was something that froze me. I could not move, not even a finger. All I saw was dark black hair, ignorant brown eyes and lips which were moving as though chanting a prayer.  As her lips moved, I caught on to a few words.  “You deserve better”, she read.  That few seconds felt like an eternity, more like those cliché moments in every romantic movie.  Time had slowed down only to stop, as though it had decided to halt at a particular moment and never start again.  I was only to imagine what she might have sounded like as she read those lines.  It repeated itself, that moment, in my mind, like an echo in a cave.  I felt myself in a melancholy in knowing that it was just a momentary satisfaction that I was going through looking at her. Even what was left of the satisfaction was soon overtaken by a feeling of despair. It began to hurt. “Looking at her hurt.”


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