[ WP ] Write a story about two soul mates breaking up

I met the woman I wanted to be your mother seven months ago. I'm twenty-nine. I have n't believed in love at first sight for a decade now, so no, before you ask, I did n't say to myself `` I'm going to marry that girl,'' or anything dramatic like that. But that's not to say I did n't feel anything. Love at first sight? Maybe not. But *potential* at first sight... That I believe in. That very first moment, you can tell -- because of the way she's standing, the way she carries herself, the magnetic pull of her blue eyes in which you can tell she sees the world in the same way you do -- that she is someone who could conceivably ruin your life. It starts in your gut ( there's a reason for cliches ), and when you ask her out to dinner, even though the words do n't come out smoothly because of course you are nervous, just not nervous she'll say no. And of course, she said yes. 
 
 I took the woman I wanted to be your mother to a divey burger bar. She did n't wear a drop of make up. Her auburn hair was curled and gnarly, but her smile was so genuine, and it wrinkled her eyes so sweetly, that she turned every head in the place. Turns out she was a vegetarian. I immediately panic, and stand up to take her anywhere else, just get away from the ground beef, but she laughs, and assures me it's okay, and puts her hand on mine to tell me to sit down, and when she touches me I do n't feel alone anymore. I am immediately at ease. We held hands for the rest of dinner, without being aware of it. 
 
 We leave and it's December, so it it's cold. I shiver, but she seems comfortable. She tells me she thinks winter is romantic. `` There's something really special about kisses in the cold,'' she says as we walk. `` It's like a war.'' 
 
 `` A war?'' I asked. 
 
 `` The universe is cold. And empty,'' she explains. `` When you kiss in the cold you make war one the bleakness. You tell it, it ca n't win.'' 
 
 You do n't know this yet, as you do n't exist, but life is excruciatingly lonely. There are distractions, of course. Alcohol. Videogames. Meaningless sex. These things exist to make you happy. But happiness is n't fulfilling. It is fleeting, and even the happiest drunk, if he takes a moment of self-reflection to look around the bar, will face the sad, sober truth that everyone is begging the bliss to linger, and he knows that it wo n't. He will wake up tomorrow as alone as he was yesterday. 
 
 She does n't make me happy. She brings me joy. Joy is energy, it is vulnerability, it is all-consuming desperation. The only other thing that has made me feel this joy, is the thought of you. I have no idea where life will take me, but I know my purpose is to be a father. To be your father. It's all I've wanted since my own father passed away when I was fourteen. He was the greatest man I ever met and I want to love someone as much as he loved me. 
 
 We talked about you, about a month ago. She told me how protective she will be of her kids. And we looked at each other for a moment, and we did n't say it, but we knew each was thinking: `` Our kids.'' 
 
 I know she would be a terrific mother. And she and I would make an unstoppable team. But life, you'll learn, when you come around, is not fair. So when I learned that the woman I wanted to be your mother could n't be a mother, and when I held her as she sobbed into my arms and wept because nature had denied her the only thing she ever wanted, I cried as well. And even though I begged her to stay, she left me, because even though I never said it, she saw the horror in my eyes, and she understood. I love her. I love her more than anything that has ever existed. 
 
 But I love you more.
