It's a nice day at the beach; nice... but empty. Something is absent from the waves and the sun beams... the mist from the ocean is lacking as well. There are no words to describe this, but an intangible state of bereavement ensues. The walk along the coastline proceeds, farther and farther. The mountains in the distance grow slowly larger, more detailed to the eye. The sand and atmosphere are softer here than before. For some inexplicable reason, time is less noticeable.
Then she appears.
Her eyes are her only asset: dark, brooding, and beautiful. No, there's more. She has midnight black hair, shoulder length. It shines in the sun. The rest of her body appears suddenly, as surrounding hillsides emerge from a morning fog, seemingly jealous of her visage. But it is no use... again, her eyes are the only part of her present - all else an afterimage. Time has slowed, inversely matching the tempo of thoughts racing through your mind. Physics? No, nothing so simple. Her eyes are locked with yours; there is a certain feeling that begins to develop intensity in the pit of your stomach. It grows, festering there, suddenly overwhelming. You break eye contact, and she's gone. Regret is all the remains of her previously stunning existence. All you wanted was to be a part of her perfection.
There are few things that can be more beautiful and powerful than meaningful interaction with those you don't know. You see them everywhere. Well, everywhere to you. This illusion is profound. Seated in a crowded concert hall, you scan the room for those you know and recognize that person ahead of you, four seats over and three rows up. Throughout the presentation your concentration is broken, waiting to see if she notices you and glances back at you. The next day, you're walking to class and there she is, walking in your direction. The conversation you're holding with your friend slows, stops, and begins again, all in concert with her movement in front, next to, and behind you. If you're lucky, eyes will lock.
If they do, just talk to her. | 
