Maybe she won’t appear today. But I’ll come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, if I have to. I’ll push through the crowds. I’ll watch and I’ll wait. I’m seventeen, and I have a thousand brilliantly hued hazardous sunrises to spare. And yet not a moment of it will feel like a waste. Because I know that when our eyes meet, through the glass, over the heads of strangers, in the bright, shining dawn or the soft, fading twilight, she’ll remember.
