Serendipity


Image from Sygns

1:30 PM
Over recent years, I’ve developed a certain sensitivity to the appeal of beautiful strangers. Those casual yet oddly entrancing encounters with people at coffee shops, subways, and checkout lines-- they have an alluring air of mystery about them, and it’s one that we often want to solve. There’s a sense of fascination with the idea of two different plotlines briefly intertwining into one chapter. Out of all the places you could have been, out of all the people you could have seen, you and another person happened to be suspended in time at this exact moment. 
It was on that Friday afternoon at Central Park when I began rummaging through my fifty different theories I’ve created on why we fall in love with strangers, trying to search for one that matched you. You were sprawled on the grass, an overflowing pencil pouch by your side and a textbook opened right in front of you but your mind was clearly elsewhere. Your eyebrows were furrowed yet you had a dreamy look in your eyes. It was as if your mind held wondrous ideas and stories far beyond what we mere humans could ever fathom. If I had a better way with words, if I had a heart daring enough, if I had anything but a tepid smile… 
Maybe I could have put one of my theories to the test. 
But perhaps the timing wasn’t right and our chapters didn’t quite align. My pages were torn and my ink was smearing. Too many words, too many thoughts. 
You took me to the places your mind goes off to when you get that wistful look in your eyes. You shared with me the galaxies that live within your soul. You’re a reservoir of endless tales and ideas. You taught me the art of poetry and I found it in the way your laughter bloomed flowers of vivid reds and brilliant violets, the way your eyes held shooting stars when you talked about your plans of pursuing acting and traveling to Europe, the way you blushed when you talked about your lucky seashell bracelet you’ve kept around since the 5th grade. 
Oh sweet serendipity, such a blissful remedy. 

1:30 PM
You were sprawled on the grass, an overflowing pencil pouch by your side and a textbook opened right in front of you but your mind was clearly elsewhere. Your eyebrows were furrowed yet you had a dreamy look in your eyes...
Perhaps we could have been everlasting or perhaps we could have been a dismal tragedy. But for now, I’ll remain dancing between the lines of If and Perhaps as the melancholy symphony of Almost plays, leaving yet another question to be unanswered. 

Oh sweet serendipity, such a woeful poison.

By Rawan Olma

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