I thought it was a dream, but who's to say

She sat on the steps to the library, so tiny framed against the monolithic building.
A stack of books sat on a step to her left. She was writing in a notebook, not looking up at anyone or anything.

He wouldn't learn it until later, but her name was Angela. She lived in an area where all the streets were named after prestigious colleges, and none of the neighbors knew each other's name. She was beautiful - at least to Crispin. She was smart - brilliant, scary smart. She didn't belong at a community college, sitting alone on the cracked steps to the library, but there she was. Amazing and alone.

He made his way past the maze of hipsters and gangsters, geeks and jocks, dodging the smokers and the spitters and the people who thought they were his friends. Head down, greasy, unkempt hair hanging as a shroud, a heavy bookbag slung over one shoulder - always just over one shoulder for easy access to its contents - he ambled onward.

She didn't know, and would never find out, that his name was Crispin. He was from broken homes across the country. Smart, sometimes funny, and painfully average. And already in love with her.

They shared a class. And in that class they occassionally shared words. And outside of the class, they occassionally shared time. Never enough for him. Every second awkward for her.

They were grouped together once, early in the year, quite on accident. He said something that sounded like a line, but wasn't meant to be. She asked him about his writing, and why it sounded so lovelorn.
He said every story he told was a love story, because that was all that mattered.

He fell in love with her. Not because she was beautiful. Not even because she was brilliant. He fell in love with her because she saw him.


She sat on the steps, the sun drenched afternoon. Other students flowed around her, going to classes or home or to meet friends or to nowhere in particular. Crispin saw her from across the quad. Her golden hair was shining, beautiful. She never saw him, and he never said hello.


She stopped going to class one day, with no explanation or warning. An assignment was handed out - to write a story about something sad or amazing or terrible that happened in their lives. Angela wrote the story, but never turned it in. When Crispin asked her what hers was about, she wouldn't say - she just turned white and silent. He didn't ask again.

She stopped going to class one day, and only Crispin noticed. The professor, who was too caught up in his own delusions of grandeur, never took attendance. Crispin just asked him one day, what happened to her. The professor shrugged and said she just wasn't there.


She sat on the steps, writing, alone. Crispin watched, surrounded by strangers, thousands of blurred faces, and he was alone with her. His skin broke out in goose bumps, defying the summer heat. He stopped, just for a moment, the air leaving the world.

She hadn't been to class in a month. He hadn't spoken to her in just less than that.

He stopped, just for a second.

Angela sat on the steps, writing in her notebook. She was beautiful and alone. And Crispin walked away.