What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me
While reading the legendary lines from the Love Story by Erich Segal, my heart skipped a beat. The cup of coffee that was keeping me from drowsing off, now helped me from spilling my eyes with tears. I clenched on to it for support. The lines were filled with love, compassion, pain and sorrow. The same love and compassion I felt for Raj, the moment I set eyes upon him on the first day of college.
He was the macho-man, and I was the silent, library type. Girls would fight to grab an opportunity to be seated next to him, while I only wished to do so. I tried avoiding him, turning pages of the books in the library. I tried letting myself know that I was not his type. And never would be. I tried writing down notes to myself telling why I would never have a chance with him. But deep in my heart, I hoped for him to glance at me at least once. I hoped for him to take the first step in asking me my name. After all that is the guy's job right?
Days passed by. And then months. But my hopes remained to be hopes. They even started to fade away. Slowly, but reluctantly. I still wished he would have noticed me. Seen me through the wide glasses and braided hair. Seen how much I loved him and cared for him. But, would he?