She isn’t the most beautiful girl in the world.

Her skin is not fair, but rather ghostly and those glasses keep slipping off her nose – the square glasses attempt to give her a cool air, but the smell of old books that persists on her gives away that she’s a library mouse. She’s too short and weights too much. Her dull clothes tell don’t say something about her personality  this girl could be a nerd as well as a double-agent.

She doesn’t follow the pattern of the society which makes her dangerous. And she knows it. Each time she lifts her eyes, intelligence gleams in them; she seems to objectively analyse everyone around, not focusing too much on anyone in particular. She does not want to be stared at, yet she doesn’t offer intimacy to the ones surrounding her. Her gestures are swift and confident which makes her stand out without even realising it. Not many persons do possess such accuracy.

I tap on my foot while waiting for the subway. She is restless. I am curious what her story is. Biting my lip, I pull out my notebook. I want to write, but the subway has come. Her hair is a rich brown mess. Before I have time to throw a second glance, the girl is gone as if she had never been there.

Was it only my imagination?

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