And who but him would ever love her?
He, who knew the perfect curve of the smile that graced on her lips when she was engrossed in her novel
He, who knew just how she liked her coffee, a pinch of sweet but strong enough to hit your drowsiness back to where it belongs.
He, who knew that little bird on the nape of her neck, hidden by her hair, but which she holds the dearest, just like her freedom.
He, who knew the crevices and the curves that led to the road to her heart, which was untrodden, a bit dusty, too wild, but a beautiful chaos nonetheless.
He, who knew just how much her soul ached for her stars, and how he couldn’t let that magic slip off from his fingertips too soon.