It’s strange, how a single glimpse of her can rearrange the rhythm of my day. I don’t need to touch her hand, or hear her voice linger longer than it should. I don’t even dare to hope for something as impossible as belonging to her. All I want—no, all I allow myself—is the quiet miracle of her presence, even if it’s only for a fleeting second. When she passes by, the world seems to pause in reverence. The noise softens, the air shifts, and I find myself selfishly storing away every detail—how the light clings to her hair, how her steps carry an ease I could never imitate. It’s enough, I tell myself, to watch from this distance. To carry the weight of wanting without the cruelty of expectation. I know she will never be mine. She belongs to another life, one where my place is nothing more than a shadow on the periphery. And yet, I can live with that. Because love, in its purest form, is not possession. It is the quiet ache of gratitude—that she exists in the same world as I do, that I can witness her even if I am fated never to hold her. So I settle for the smallest gift: the glance, the passing smile not meant for me, the warmth of her nearness before it fades into memory. It is less than a dream, but more than nothing. And for me, that is enough.