Girl in my psychology class

I wish I could photograph you.

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You just seem so tender.

Your polite and level voice, how gently you tuck a lock of hair behind the lavender frame of your glasses, even the neat loops and unassuming curves of your handwriting make you appear so sweetly demure.

Even your hair! Those modest, shoulder-length waves, playful and airy blonde hues weaving with warm shades of golden brown. It looks soft to the touch, the kind of hair that, if you caress it, it caresses you back.

I can imagine you holding the door open unnecessarily long to help the stranger walking behind you. I can just picture you bring ice cream to a friend after a breakup, and quietly consoling her as she cried in your arms. In my mind you volunteer with small children, reading picture books with 4 year-olds perched on your lap and letting them turn the pages.

This person, this wonderful human I’ve decided you are, she makes me want to help people. She makes me want to be kinder and gentler and more prone to happy silence. I don’t even know you, but you’re already one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.

And I’ll never know you. Because I want you to stay that way.

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