My mother always told me that love is like a flower: it requires great care and effort if you truly wanted. Then, she told me I was too lacking in care. She joked I had gotten it from her. Then again, she may have lied, for she was anything if not caring.

Every day, I watch her, silently, longingly. She move through the crowds with ease, hair bouncing with each step, not smiling brightly, not loud or flirtatious, but observing, as I always do. There are days when our eyes meet, but never for long, for what would she want with me?

I'm a storm, black and roiling and just waiting for something--what, I don't know. Occasionally, I carve shard-like patterns across my skin in black pen, a tattoo proclaiming, "If you ever wanted me before, stay back; I'm sharp and I cut." It washes off easily.

She, she's the breath of autumn: pockmarked with acne scars and freckles like leaves on her creamy skin, long tresses swaying in an invisible breeze, pink lips which whispered to the boys and girls on her left and right; they never paid her any mind.

With each time I sit at my desk, I scrawl her a note: "Do you see me?" "I would like to meet you." "Would you like anything?"

And each time, she would reply: "It would be impossible not to." "Likewise." "Your company would be nice." All her messages were followed by tiny drawings.

One day, I see her in the bathroom, tending to her hands with the same care she applied to everything in life. I stare at her, blinking as she stares back. "It's impolite to stare," she says in that light breezy voice. 

There is silence for a moment, then I respond, "Then we're both impolite." A smile lifts her face, the first time I've seen true expression on her. It looks different, fuller, than her usual expressions. She finishes washing her hands, than comes over to me. She stands only a few centimeters taller, but her hands match mine. She takes my right and pulls me. 

Panic settles beneath my skin as I feel her warmth against me. We are swept away in the river of people, my fingers becoming clammy as her fingers wind their way through mine. We're suddenly popped out into the vastness of the world, far from the crush of students. 

Her smile tilted, turning playful. With another tug against my wrist, she pulls me 'round the corner. Our slight size difference suddenly seems daunting. Her thumb cautiously--reverently, I think in a daze--brushes my cheek, barely there. I feel a shiver run through me.

Did I know her? Of course I did. Small things and big things, her hopes and her dreams, her fears and her favorites. Yet I couldn't help hesitating, my mother's words dancing along the seams of my mind. 

Bright and sharp, she seems to sense my inner thoughts nibbling on my nerves. She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and I fall utterly silent as blood rushes to my face. "Is this okay?" she asks softly. 

For a moment, there is a crack in her own expression, the face of a scared--no, terrified--girl. I can almost hear what she's thinking: that the two of us would be drawn together and that it could, would, should, end in heartbreak. 

Grinning suddenly, almost shark-like, I pull her towards me. I can feel the heat of her blush radiating off her cheeks; undoubtedly, she can feel mine. We kiss with the passion of Venus feeding us. 

Leaving her taste on my tongue, she pulls away. My hands ended up tangled in the ends of her long hair, hers cupping my face like I'm water and she's fire and she's burning too hot. We're both smiling softly, lost in our own little moment. 

Unfortunately, everyone knows fire and water don't mix. One would eventually be consumed by the other. 

Que sera, sera, and to hell with the consequences.