Her hair was perfect. Like, so perfect that if she would have to sell it to buy him a present, she would have a lot more than just twenty dollars. Not that she needed to, or that he’d let her.
He, perhaps loved her perfect hair not because his own would grow so uncontrollably messy had he ever tried growing it beyond the sober half an inch he limited it to, but because it was her hair.
She had big, dreamy eyes, like the world never failed to surprise her; the gold of the sunshine reflected in her eyes was fine by him too – he didn’t have to squint to look at the sun anymore.
His nose was sculpted to match the ones seen on images of ancient Greek deities, and he loved her little nose, which, he often joked, wasn’t enough to let sufficient oxygen in. He loved it when she would scrunch it up when he kissed the top of it.
If he started singing, everything within a hundred mile radius would whither away and die, so he played instead. And he played like Apollo, or maybe Apollo himself couldn’t beat him in a guitar jam session. She couldn’t stop herself from humming along, which, to his pleasure, would soon turn into a song – his song. And he was her tune.
She loved reading, he loathed it. He loved her voice, but being the shy girl that she was, she didn’t want the world to hear it. But he wasn’t the world. He was her world. So she’d read to him, almost every single night.
He was tall, she was not.
He had a temper, she did not. He belonged with her, and she with him.
I had loved him since forever. They wished to be together forever after.
They were picture-perfect together. I was silhouetted in the background.
I write down their story, for they are too much in love to do so. That when they go down in history, together, as star-crossed lovers, I would carefully scoop myself out of their story.
For it is not the story of a silhouette.
Upoma Aziz is a walking-talking, ticking time-bomb going off at random detonators. Poke her to watch her explode at www.fb.com/upoma.aziz