For Her Whom I Loved

I found this in my drafts from...years ago? I accidentally clicked on it. I recognize many of the words as my favorites and most commonly used, but if someone claims this work then I'd oblige. I think I may have written this for an English essay? Assuming I did write it, of course. I don't know. A year is a long time, much more two. Anyway, I think it's pretty so I'm sharing it with y'all. 

Ask anyone to name what in life is worth living for and they reply to you a plethora of answers: happiness, satisfaction, family, love... For me, it's the feeling of home, a warm smile across a pale face, the softness in being held between someone's arms, a person - her. 

She came to me amidst a sea of people rushing about their mundane business. She came running towards me like a vehicle with no mechanism of stopping that shattered not only my bones but the abstractness and futility of my life. That day, she was right in front of me, but I didn't realize what treasure I had back then until the day she wasn't.

She was both a zephyr and a hurricane. Her dark hair cascaded down her back and moved in a graceful flourish along the sonorous staccato beat of her heels against the floor that echoed inside the classroom.  The curved lips would part to let out a sing-song voice uttering a joke followed by a high-pitched peal of laughter stinging the ears. She'd bump every seat as she moved from one point to another but all you'll hear is a soft apology and a sheepish smile. 

She wasn't perfect though, as nobody is. Nonetheless, both her physical flaws and personal shortcomings was something I trained myself to see but never mind. I neither cared about the spray of pimples throughout her face, nor the fact that what was hiding behind her strong and arrogant facade was a frightened girl looking for her place in the world. 

Inside a place full of books was where she felt most at home, drifting between reality and imagination, whereas I'd felt most at home with her. She would read by me as I strummed along my guitar or whisked away in my sketchbook. On good days, you'll find her at the farthest seat from the doorway, immersed in the fantasies of a published book. On bad days, the same but she'll be slumped, her eyes looking exhausted, and her head cradled in her arms. 

We'd walk alongside each other after school and I'd always feel warmth brewing inside my chest. I'd tell her I love her but she already knows. She's my best friend after all. She does nothing about it since she loves another. But what do you do when the person you see as home sees home in another? Love her still, of course.