I knew it the first time you met my eyes.
The girl you wished to meet was not me.
She would have blonde curls with pink streaks and would sit in the middle of the busy pavement, next to the lone guitarist with an amateur voice, reading a book on the 12 most beneficial postures in Yoga.
She would wear bright yellow skirts and pigtails and bounce down to the supermarket, optimism hitting everyone she passed like the aroma of her bold perfume that smelled like nachos.
She would waltz in the rain with an imaginary partner and climb trees to tickle squirrels.
She would press down on the accelerator and get herself a speeding ticket and come home to check the box next to “Speed drive and get caught before you are thirty.”
That girl would take seven different trains across the city and never feel lost.
She would giddily trot her way to the bottom of several wine glasses and never mope or puke.
That girl could make your lungs crave for oxygen.
She could make you feel breathless and yet, she could make you like it.
And when you met my eyes, nine years later,
I felt loss.
And I know you did too when you scrutinized all of me, right from the crutches under my armpits to the core of my defeated Soul.
I’m sorry, I said.
Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl, speed drove herself to Death and left her Shadow in me instead.