Her voice rings in my ears like a harp playing constantly; the beautiful sound of music originating from it makes me feel weak, vulnerable. Yet without this music I would feel empty and alone so I cry out for it to never end. But it always does, such is the life of a hopeless romantic. To fall in love so easily yet so strongly - is it a blessing or a curse. I ask myself this a lot, maybe too much but still I hear her voice. And still it makes me want to run to her and embrace her, alas I cannot she doesn't even know who I am. Our only interactions are when I order a drink at her small Bistro and once again I get my fix of her angelic voice. At this point, due to my obsession, I can't bring myself to directly confront her and propose my love for her - I'd seem like a creep. So I am left destitute in a state of limbo - like the children's song with a dandelion - do I love her do I not? I question myself. It's always the same am I really in love or am I in love with the idea of love her not - yet still I can't get the music of her sweet melodies out of my mind.
And so I linger in that quiet contradiction, caught somewhere between longing and illusion. For what is love, if not the act of seeing something ordinary and choosing to believe it extraordinary? Yet I cannot tell whether I have seen her at all, or merely the reflection of my own yearning cast upon her voice. It is a strange thing, to be moved so deeply by someone who remains untouched by your existence; I know nothing of her thoughts, her fears, the cadence of her laughter when it is not shaped for customers and courtesy, and yet I have built a cathedral in my mind where she stands at its centre, radiant and untouchable, sculpted not by truth but by desire.
Perhaps that is the cruelty of it - how easily the heart composes symphonies from fragments. A word, a glance, a fleeting smile, and suddenly there is meaning where there was none, intention where there was only habit. I tell myself that what I feel is profound, that it must be real, because it aches so sharply - but pain is not proof, only presence. Still, I return, again and again, like a moth that understands the flame will not love it back, yet cannot resist the warmth; I order drinks I do not want, speak words I do not mean, all for the briefest moment of hearing that voice spill into the world as though it were meant for me alone, and in those moments I almost believe it.
But when I leave, the illusion dissolves into the cold clarity of the night air, and I am reminded that love, if it is to be love at all, must exist between two souls, not one reaching endlessly into silence. What I hold is something else - something softer, more fragile, perhaps more dangerous: hope without foundation, intimacy without knowing, devotion without being seen. So I ask myself again whether it is better to feel this, however hollow it may be, or to silence it entirely and return to the stillness I knew before - but I never arrive at an answer, because tomorrow, without fail, I will hear the music again, and once more, I will choose not to let it end.