she looked.
and he looked.
and then she looked away.
it was like he read her soul, page by ink-filled page, despite the sloppy handwriting and the cross outs, until he didn't have to read any more.
he just understood.
he understood why she plays with that ring on her middle finger.
he understood why she sometimes speaks too loudly or too softly when she's in a crowd.
he understood why she always carries a notebook with her, and feverishly puts her inspiration down on paper.
he understood why she dreams about typewriters and monogrammed stationary, not fancy cars or big houses.
and he liked that.
image via vi.sualize.us
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