I never realized that the air I had been breathing was artificial before I met her. It didn’t register with my brain that what my lungs were taking in was not air, but a mere imposter claiming to know life’s wisdom. The day I met her turned the air I inhaled to something out of this world; it had purpose. She was purpose.

Those long blonde locks of hair that waved down beyond her shoulders, but lingering menacingly above her shoulder blades were almost too much take in. Her hazel eyes were like getting lost in heaven itself. It was her simple imperfections that made her perfect to me, and it’s what made her a real. It grounded her to mortality rather than her taking flight in her divine potential. Things like the braces that defended her mouth only made her prettier. Truthfully, they could protect her mouth, but her lips, her forehead, her nose, and even her cheeks all remained exposed and unprotected.

The first time I saw her smile was the first time I felt what I thought was unattainable. There was too much bliss in this one face for me to handle. Sitting in class with her I recall her wit and charm, the almost sweet way she’d answer the teacher’s questions. Other guys didn’t seem to notice her, but she was all the occupied my mind. There was this certain aura she’d always give off that made me feel good about my life. Simple things like applying Chapstick to her lips made me melt inside. For so long she was my personal muse, the one who i practiced talking to in the mirror. She was my first love.

If only she would’ve noticed my minor existence on this planet. If we could’ve ad all those conversations I’d dreamed up and written about. For so long I needed her. From the discouragement of watching another guy ask her out to the sweet satisfaction of discovering she rejected him, she was all I thought about and all I needed. It’s a feeling I don’t think I can replace.

For the rest of my life I get to marinade the idea of us interacting, of our emotions and mentalities combining one force for even one little conversation. I’ll never get to know if she had a secret love for me back; if she wrote hundreds of pointless journals about me like I did her. My questions don’t get fairytale endings.

I’m back to breathing artificially.

RIP Katherine.