You'd always sit in the very end,

not the cliche type of girl who would

stuff her nose inside a dusty book,

pretending to be shy so someone

would talk to her.

Not that I could talk to you.

But you'd sip your coffee, place your

feet at the edge of the window, lean

back and just take pictures of the ceilings

with your old camera, and as soon as

you got tired, you'd take another sip,

a sip of cold coffee.

I always wondered why you even

liked coffee in the first place,

with it being bitter and absolutely

disgusting.

But you were just another mystery

ready to be solved.

And when you miserably failed to

complete a painting of the window

with watercolors, a chuckle escaped

from my lips.

I remember how your eyes darted

up and met mine, scared and lonely,

and all I could think of was to

say I'm sorry.

Yet I can't, that's the problem.

I can't.