I see her, and she sees me. That much is true. Our eyes meet, the same light reaches us both, the same moment is shared. But what we see in that moment could not be more different. I look at her the way sailors must have looked at stars, like something to guide me, something distant yet necessary, something that gives shape to the dark. She is the quiet center of my thoughts, the measure by which ordinary days become bearable. In the smallest glance from her, I find enough meaning to carry for hours. She looks at me the way people look at passing faces in a crowd. Briefly. Without weight. Without memory. I am a figure that enters and exits her day without consequence, a name that could be forgotten and replaced by another. I made her sacred in the private chambers of my mind. I gave her the kind of importance people reserve for gods and first loves and miracles they never deserved. But to her, I am only incidental, someone random standing where countless others could stand just as easily. And maybe that is the cruelest kind of love: not when someone hates you, not when they reject you, but when they simply do not know that your world bends around them at all. I see her as everything. She sees me as anyone.