He knew she was dying and yet he did not want to accept the fact that she would be gone soon.
"No, you'll get better and then you must write your own story," he answered as he choked back the tears. He had to appear strong; he must not let her down, must not show his true emotions.
He recalled those wonderful years he had with her. She with those dark brown eyes, short choppy haired, my pixie haired angel he used to call her. Her small petite frame belies the strong and determined nature she had. Not to be fooled, she was strong. Petite frame she may be but she was sturdy and tough. He knew she did not like depending on people no matter how much she needed help. But now, seeing her lying on the bed, worn out and drained by the many years of self-inflicted pain due to her stubbornness he regretted not forcing her to stop, he regretted not being able to change her mind set. He knew this scenario would not have happened had he been more firm with her, just by trying a little harder and not giving in to her obstinate, headstrong and sometimes childish behavior.
"A little too late for regrets now," he thought.
He remembered seeing her for the first time, sitting casually on at the ledge of a balcony. Slowly but surely, he started to notice her more, usually walking down his street, at the park. What attracted him most was her special smile when she was in the presence of a child, a baby. At the park, he noticed she would head straight to the mothers. Asking for permission, she would cuddle the child, with such love in her eyes he could not resist. Surprisingly, she was the one who approached him first. No matter how hard he tries to recollect, he fails to remember the exchange of pleasantries, from the little piece of paper with her number on it to the first call he made, the memory continues to elude him.
To be continued...
