beginnings.

There is a strange non-definable beauty in not knowing someone enough. You are somehow at this slightly different brand of peace with yourself. Every day starts with a new carefully drawn conversation happening in your head and ends up with the satisfaction of stolen glances and that accidental brush against their skin. There is a rush when you see them. The adrenaline. The awe. The radiance. The magical air that surrounds their epitome of perfectness.

And then you get up one day, walk across the hall and say hello.

Endings hurt the way they do because beginnings ruin the false sense of flawlessness you so happily dwell in. It’s the beginnings you should hate, and yet.