She was in love. She knew it immediately. Yet like other experiences of love, it didn’t scare her. It was never enough, never too much. She wished for more, needed more. She wanted everything, to know every part of him.
The way his hair framed his face, and softly fell, despite his hands protesting, pushing it back. His hands; elegant but not at all feminine, she wished to trace every indentation on his palm not once, twice, but three times, to imprint the memory in her brain. She wanted to know his lips; soft, full – but more than that, she wanted to know them. How they adapt and change from a smirk to a smile to a grin to a grimace. She wished to be the cause of his every infectious smile. She desired every line on his face, the crinkles around his eyes, the way his dimples set in his face – oh, his dimples! His smile could cheer up the most defeated, melancholic old man, she was sure. And she was certain his hands could cure a terminal disease, and evoke feeling into an otherwise numb soul.
She felt insane, obsessive, smothering with her thoughts. But he didn’t mind – he knew none of this, of course. It was a secret quick glances when he wasn’t looking – hoping he wasn’t aware.
When she woke up she could almost taste his skin, smell his hair, feel his breath on her cheek. She smiled, relishing in the after effect of the almost-feeling, then rolled out of bed and brewed her morning coffee.