“It’s like there’s no stars in the sky tonight,” she murmurs.

And in the moment I look over at her. Her pale skin and dusty hazel eyes shining beneath the moon’s light. I nod silently, turning to look out the window again. She is partially correct; the sky is covered with shrouded, grey clouds that hide the glistening stars. But that in no way means the stars aren’t there, they are simply veiled by shadows of doubt and sadness.

Just like her.

My eyes glaze over her figure once again and my mind instantly returns to the gloomy March day when we’d first met.

I’d walked into the office’s waiting room in a dark jacket muttering obscenities beneath my breath about the weather. And she was sitting across from my chair. Auburn hair in braid and figure bundled in a large coat; I scrutinized her, taking in her appearance of innocence. I wondered what someone so beautiful was doing at a therapist’s office. And theorized too many reasons; unknowingly watching her for a troubling amount of time.

She looked up that after quite some while as if sensing my attentive gaze and our eyes connected in crackling way. I saw so many things in her orbs: agony, damage, distress. And I smiled small, looking away, wishing the sudden nervousness would disappear. But she continued to study me, beholding me as if I was the only light in a sea of darkness. As if she had been searching for me.

She was called in soon by the snobby receptionist and I watched her figure disappear down the hall.
Then, I didn’t see her for weeks but the prominent image of her remained etched in my mind. I dreamed of the hazel eyes and soft hair, desiring severely to see her again. My heart searched for her presence amongst crowds as everything began reminding me of her. From the distant traffic light to a fluffy coat in store’s display to a head of brown hair in a shop, my mind would trace back to her. And I had gone proper insane for someone whose identity remained a mystery to me.

And my pursuit was concluded when I encountered her again at a lonely cafe not too far from the therapist’s office, almost a month after our first meeting. She was sipping coffee with burgundy-glove-covered-hands, face adorably red from the wintery winds. I wanted to envelope her in a bear hug when I saw her shivering. And I walked in, ordering a medium coffee, all the while thinking of how I could somehow obtain her number.
Soon, when I had mustered enough courage, I slid into the chair directly across from her, hands shaking while I gripped my cup. And she was startled; hand over her heart in freight.

Quietly and unsure, we soon slipped into unhurried chatter, talking of everything and anything. I saw even more unhappiness in her eyes than ever before as she told me of her herself with hesitancy. Cups were emptied and refilled as the words flowed. We discovered we both shared a love for Steve Wonder, watercolour paintings and strawberries. And I smiled to myself at all the times I successfully made her laugh, feeling accomplished. We then exchanged numbers and starry-eyed looks, promising to see each other again silently.

And I later learned of her biggest problem in a teary phone call confession some time later. I discovered the reason she’d been seeking help. All the anguish and loneliness, the pills that didn’t seem to do their job and the demons that haunted her like cloaked figures. It confused me how the monsters the ruined her came from within but I vowed to protect her from them.

She began coming over soon and I was unable to get enough. We’d eat pizza while watching old TV shows and observe the rain from the windows in my apartment as we drew pictures in the fogged glass. Then she began sleeping in my bed, sharing pillows with me while I shared slow kisses with her. And I would encircle my arms around her delicate frame, whispering words of protection. I found myself enjoying how warm the bed would become with the two of us wrapped up in one another. A desirable change.

She would talk about how she felt in the obscurity, how petrified she was. How miserable she became, and how she needed a rescuer. And then I’d interrupt her, telling her stories of Christmas lights and swimming trunks that were too small until she was giggling at my fondest and most embarrassing memories. And slowly, I made the demons cower into the corners and crevices of her mind until they eventually disappeared. And I persisted, brought her back every time she veered away and denied the aid she was in obvious need of, until I became her hero, her guardian, and her fallen angel.

“That’s okay. Just because you can’t see them, it doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” I say. And she looks up at me the very same way she had on the first day. Except her expression is more peaceful and her eyes are thankful.

The End.