Sometimes, it seems so cruel. I know this one girl, and she’s nice. Not nice nice, just nice. She’s someone who you like to have a drink and a talk with on parties and who you’re not uncomfortable with when you meet her in the supermarket. Her friends overlap those of mine in the most stretched out spots, but that’s ok.
She’s pretty, but not to take pictures of. But, and this is the most cruel thing, she is the most beautiful when she cries.
I’ve seen her cry twice now, mostly unaware of the cause, but it’s magical. No one even dares to comfort her. She becomes a piece of art, shuddering, shimmering like a clear star-filled sky.
Pearls race down soft, reddened cheeks, originating from sparkling crimson-edged glances that seem to carry the sorrows of the world. Like a mother blindly searching her child in a plaincrash, her hands cross and reach for her shoulders, neck and chin.
When she sits down, her fragile limbs fold awkwardly like two pieces of a puzzle that are mashed together in rage and desperation. Shaking like a leaf, soft sobs, wails that bring dark clouds; she is the culmination of every bad time you have ever had to deal with.
I’m not sure when she cried, or for how long, but I stared, not realizing there was anything else than this girl, this beacon of grief, on the world. She knew. She wiped those tears from her eyes, as I mumbled something that could be interpreted as: “Are you okay?”
Then, the moment is gone. She get’s up, puts up a good excuse for a smile and walks to the bathroom while talking to one of the friends that we don’t share. I shrug, while some guy asks me what was the deal with her.
Man, she cries like something out of this world. It’s just fascinating. The worst thing is knowing how she changes when being in despair. Now every time I see her, I somehow hope there is something for her to cry about or if there is anything I can do to make her cry. I am a monster, just powerless against such a force of nature, such unfiltered grief.