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He wasn’t sure if he still loved her, or if he was still trying to.

She was turbulent, like a hurricane on the loose, a road racer, a fast-lane chaser.

But she was also the safest thing he ever came across. And it was the easiest thing in the world for him to hold onto the things he considered safe.

Her eyes had a gift: they changed colors. They shifted from green to red to grey to blue. When she got angry, they were red. She was compassionate now – they turned blue. Now she’s looking all cute and sweet: her eyes shift to green.

Whenever she’s worried, he could tell: her eyes turned grey.

It was difficult to hold onto a person with powers like that. Unnatural powers. You couldn’t expect to deal with them like you would with normal people. Write them letters? No. Play a sweet song for them? No. Buy them expensive presents? No.

It was hard. Hard for him to figure out a sure way to get her back and hold her tighter than ever. And it was hard for her to accept the incredible standards she’d set for him and the rest of the men looking to get to her. She had set those standards unwillingly – some would even say reluctantly – but she couldn’t apologize for the gift she had and who she was.

In a jobless, loveless, empty world, she was still a gem. She would be one of the first things to be hunted down by extraterrestrials if they were ever to come snooping around these parts for gold.

And that worried him. That worried him dearly. Because at the end of the day, he didn’t believe in extraterrestrials. He didn’t believe in aliens. But he believed in human nature. And human nature dictated that the strong and opportunist feeds on the misfortune of the weak. And he was the weak one in that court. He was the injured gazelle in the prairie. He was the bruised stallion entering the race.

And she was the girl with the color-changing eyes. She was the girl with the shifting hair. She was gorgeous, she was beauty. She simply was; and he, looking at her pictures, thinking about her on a rainy day again, was no longer; was not. He had fallen to the back of the line, fallen on his back again. No one and nothing could save him: not the books or good poetry or a nice warm cup of hot chocolate. He was done. And the more she sparkled, the more he faded and became nothing more than an entry. A journal entry. An idea. A figment of life itself. No reason for being and no reason to be. And the everlasting cries of his shredded soul were all that was left in her deep eyes, a pure black reflection of absent colors and melancholic noises that were once all it took to turn them blue.

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