The Girl I Never Knew

I met a girl.

 

I don’t know her name. I don’t know where she came from or where she’s going. I don’t know if she even exists beyond the fragile edges of my mind. But I met her. And now, she lives inside me.

 

She wasn’t just beautiful—she was something else. A presence that demanded nothing yet consumed everything. Her dusky skin glowed under dim lights, her lean frame moved with an unspoken grace. But it was her voice that undid me. Soft, like the last trace of a song that lingers long after the music stops. Sweet, like something you taste once and crave for the rest of your life.

 

The first time I saw her, she was just another person in the crowd. But the moment she spoke, something inside me shifted. Like the air had changed, like I had been waiting for this without knowing it. And then, there was nothing else.

 

We were in a place that didn’t matter—a training center, I think. A gathering of people who would come and go, faces blurring into one another. But she didn’t blur. She stood out, sharply, like a word spoken in a silent room.

 

At first, I watched her from a distance, as if drawn by some invisible force. I told myself it was curiosity, nothing more. But then, she laughed. And that laughter buried itself inside my ribs, wound around my lungs, made it impossible to breathe without thinking of her.

 

I started moving closer without meaning to.

 

We formed a group—casual, meaningless. Just people thrown together by circumstance. But when she was near, the rest of them faded. Every word she spoke felt like it was meant for me. Every glance, even the ones that barely lasted a second, felt like they held secrets I wasn’t ready to understand.

 

I became addicted to her presence.

 

The way her fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of her sleeves when she was lost in thought. The way she tilted her head when she listened, her lips parted just slightly, as if tasting the words before responding. The way she looked at me—casual, unknowing, yet devastating.

 

At night, I thought about her.

 

During the day, I searched for her.

 

She became a pulse beneath my skin, a thought that wouldn’t leave, a need I didn’t know how to name.

 

I told myself I was imagining it. That whatever this was, it wasn’t real. But then, there were moments—small moments—when I thought maybe she felt it too.

 

Like when she caught my eye across the room and didn’t look away.

 

Or when she leaned in just a little too close when she spoke to me, her breath warm against my skin.

 

Or the way she hesitated sometimes, as if measuring her words carefully before speaking.

 

Then, one evening, she shattered me.

 

“I’m getting engaged,” she said, her voice light, as if she hadn’t just set fire to everything inside me.

 

I must have looked stunned because she smiled, tilting her head slightly, amused by my reaction.

 

“I’ll be married by the end of the year.”

 

I felt the words hit me, slow and heavy. The world around me blurred, but she remained clear. Sharp.

 

I wanted to ask if she was happy. If she loved him. If there was a chance—any chance—that she had felt even an inch of what I felt.

 

But I said nothing.

 

Before she left, she turned back.

 

“You should come to the wedding.”

 

And I thought—there’s time.

 

Nine months.

 

I could make this work. I could make her mine.

 

And then, I woke up.

 

The ceiling above me was unfamiliar, the air too still. My heart was pounding, my body tense. I turned, expecting to see her beside me.

 

But there was nothing.

 

No training center. No lingering scent of her perfume. No voice calling my name.

 

Just me.

 

I tried to hold on to her, to remember every single detail before she could slip away. But she was already fading, like mist under the morning sun.

 

And still, my heart ached. As if she had been real. As if I had lost something.

 

As if I had loved her.