[ WP ] The first day you met you fell in love , the next day you were enemies

There is a balance. Love will find you when you least expect it, yet you have to keep your eyes open in order to welcome it when you see it. Grasp onto it and never let it go. 
 
 I was once asked to describe myself in three words. Three words to define any human with our flaws, attributes, and emotional complexities is an absurd undertaking. For me, it was easy: A courageous coward. Bravery is obviously subjective, but by any normal standard I would classify myself as brave. After college, I decided to leave home and travel abroad by myself for a year with no money and no plan. I boarded the plane with nothing but air in my lungs and a misleading, idealistic sense of freedom. Five months later, I found myself in Paris. And that ’ s when I found you. 
 
 After five months of sleeping on streets and working for room and board, I found myself at a bistro a couple blocks from Notre Dame Cathedral. I ordered myself a coffee and a pain au chocolat with a couple euros that some generous passerbyer had tossed to me the night before as I was sleeping on a park bench. I found a table outside under an umbrella. You were seated a few tables away, sipping tea while infatuatedly reading a novel. But I didn ’ t notice you at you first. It was only after devouring my chocolate filled pastry that I caught my first glimpse of you. It wasn ’ t your long dark hair that caught me off guard, nor was it the way you held yourself in such a fashionable Parisian manner. No, it was your eyes. It ’ s always the eyes. Green. They were captivated by the words on a page with such intensity and focus that at that moment I wished for nothing more than to be that book you held so delicately if only so that you too could gaze upon me in such a manner. 
 
 First impressions are everything, or so they say. I read somewhere that the first thing a girl will notice about a man is his shoes. I looked down at mine. Holes had worn through so much that you could see my toes. I worked my way up to my jeans that were tattered and frayed. My shirt stained with dirt. My hair was long, and my beard was wild and unkempt. It had been days since I had showered. I thought of ways to approach you, to explain my appearance. It would make for a good conversation. Romantic images of a “ rugged ” adventurer asking a pretty girl about her favorite author captivated my mind. I gathered my courage and made my way to your table. As I was approaching, you looked up from your novel. Your eyes met mine. Those perfect green eyes. Yet, it wasn ’ t infatuation or intensity that I saw in them. No, instead, it was pity. Pity: a sympathetic disguise for disgust. My heart sank. My eyes shifted downward, and I walked past your table. Not once looking back, my feet reached the street where I became just another stranger in Paris. 
 
 The next morning I awoke hungover. The green-eyed girl who I knew I could love cast judgment upon me with nothing more than a mere glance. For that I despised you. Even more, I despised myself. Regret. I am a courageous coward. 

