Each day, he would watch her. His eyes were fixated on her pure beauty and elegance. She was so sleek and graceful wherever it was she stood. She was so crisp, fresh, clean. He wanted nothing more but for her to know he existed. He wanted nothing more but her attention. He wanted her to love him. They could be lovers, together for the rest of his miserable life. He thought, perhaps, his life wouldn't be so miserable with her. Maybe he'd once again have purpose. He just needed them to meet.

He would see her every weekday as he walked to and from work. Even on the weekends, he would drive by just to catch a glimpse of her beauty. She stood in the same place every morning and every night in front of the abandoned house down the road from him, just staring out into the distance with such grace. He never saw her move, though. She was always just looking into the distance, mindlessly. Why didn't she notice him?

One day, walking back from a late night at work as the sun set, he approached her. He didn't know what he would say; his tongue was twisted in his mouth. He had no words for her. He always imagined this moment where she would notice him and they would finally have their happily ever after. He knew she had to be his. He wouldn't have it any other way.

He tried to speak to her, but he couldn't find the words. He stood right in front of her, staring at her where she stood, but she didn't move. He was mere inches from her, but she pretended he wasn't there. She showed no emotion. It was really as if he didn't exist to her. Overcome with sadness, he ran home, tears filling his eyes. The love of his life didn't know he existed.

Having her wasn't a possibility, it was a must to him. That night, he crept down the street, alarmed it was three o'clock in the morning and she was still in her same usual spot. She looked so good. She was absolutely stunning, even without the sunlight glistening against her. He needed to have her. He would have her at last.

Walking up to her took seconds, but it felt like ages. She didn't recognize he was there as he sneaked up behind her and grabbed her, ripping her from the ground where she stood. No reaction came from her, as always. She didn't scream. She didn't fight him. It was as if he never even stole her from where she always stood. With a heavy sigh, he carried her happily to his apartment.

He was afraid someone might find out, so he hid her in a room. He kept her there, for he was scared to check on her. He knew she might be angry, and he didn't want to lose her. She might fight back. She stayed in that locked room for her own safety, he told himself. There was food and water in there, he knew she'd be okay. This was the only way he would ever have her. He couldn't lose her.

It was in that room that she withered away. She wrinkled, browned, and shriveled to nothing. Weeks later, when he finally mustered up the courage to unlock and open that door, it was too late. She was gone. She was decomposing. That beauty she once possessed was gone; the color had drained from her lifeless body. He was standing at the door sobbing when he realized she didn't die in this room. She died the minute he tore her from the ground she stood on.

That night, he wrote one thing down in his diary.


Note to self- Don't fall in love with a blade of grass