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Short story. Not done.Category: (general)
Monday, 2 December 2013
03:13:22 PM (GMT)
I have never believed in a Heaven or Hell. I have never been a religious person,
simply for the fact that I could never make sense of it. So naturally, I
didn't believe in any sort of afterlife. Your heart stops beating, your skin turns
cold, and they bury your lifeless body six feet under the dirt; it couldn't be more
simple. Death was never anything more to me than a bittersweet ending to the story
life. I had embraced the fact that I wasn't going to live forever, and even if I
could, I wouldn't want to. Every good story has to come to an end at some point,

	Your story ended much too soon. And my god, you were the greatest story that I ever
had the pleasure of experiencing. You were too good to put down, and I held you as
long as I possibly could. I read and re-read the pages of you on a daily basis; I
wanted you to be seemily never ending, such as a series of books that the author just
couldn’t stop writing. 

	I remember the first time I saw you. You walked through those double doors on a
scorching August afternoon. You couldn't see me, but I spotted you right off the
No one seemed to notice you standing all alone with your hands in your pockets in
middle of that crowded room. But I couldn't have missed you if I tried. Your
eyes were what first caught my attention. They were a brilliant icy shade of green,
and they sparkled like a brand new dime. You were just so lovely; it blew my
mind. I wanted you so insanely bad. Your eyes were scanning the room as if you
were intent on finding something, or someone. I never took my sight off you. Then it
happened; your eyes locked on mine for the first time. In that very moment,
you stole my breath and my heart, and I've never been the same.

	It took a lifetime for you to even so much as speak to me. The days turned into
weeks, and the weeks into months, and in that time span I continuously wasted all my
time trying to get your attention again. And you know what finally did it? Singing
and coffee, and maybe that’s why those two things are so important to me. I suppose
I need to go into detail about why, and that’s fine. 

	I was performing in this quaint little coffee house on the corner of 5th and
Stanton. That’s how I spent my Friday nights- on stage, guitar in my hand, singing
to my heart’s content. Somehow you made your way in there, which honestly surprised
me. It didn’t seem like your scene; you were so quiet and reserved, and I never saw
you out. After my performance, I had sat down to enjoy my usual caramel latte and do
a little writing. You approached me and asked if the other seat at my table for two
was taken. I turned slightly crimson, and shyly told you that no, it was unoccupied.

	“You play really beautifully, Iris”, you said. I sipped my steamy latte and
quietly said, “Thank you, Gregory.” You then asked if you could try my latte, and
I let you. We sat there in the coffee house until it closed, speaking of the things
we wanted, what we were passionate about, the places we’d been, and the places
we’d go. Closing time rolled around, so I excused myself and ran along home. As I
laid there in my bed, staring up at my little blue lights running the perimeter of my
ceiling, I thought about you. I thought about the way that you looked at me in the
dim lights, smirking when I’d say something that you found cute. I thought about
how intensely you spoke of your music, and how you laughed at me when I said that my
dream was to move to Paris and fall in love. 

	The weeks turned into months, and I quickly fell in love with you. I fell in love
with your eyes: how they’d look me up and down, and a grin would spread across your
lovely face, and I’d kiss you a million times until we both collapsed in a fit of

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