'I felt you again in my sleep last night,' she wrote. 'I hadn't been thinking of you lately. At least, i tried not to. But i guess it all comes down to the last person you think of at night. That's where your heart is. And I wasn't surprised. It had been you all along.

'It was funny how my subconscious painted you better than my waking thoughts. There you stood with your tall, imposing figure - the same gait, that sharp jawline, those same mesmerising eyes. I'd always loved your eyes. Such a beautiful shade of brown. As if rays of sunlight had caught on a blend of chocolate. As if - '

She paused. He seemed to be the recurring subject in almost everything she did. This time, in a blog she was supposed to write on first impressions. Everything just came back to him.

And it might have made sense if they had been an 'almost'. But they had not.

And that was the sweet pain of unrequited love. It made you crave. Something, anything of them to hold onto; a little hope, that even for a fraction of a second, on this titanic spectrum of eternity, they'd acknowledged your existence. And even though you crave it, it breaks you even more so, if they hadn't in the first place.

And it made her wonder whether every single moment leading upto him was orchestrated by some cruel hand of fate. Or whether it was all her imagination. Whether she had dreamt it all. Them, dancing in the starlight, with the moon as spotlight, when he'd look at her as the only one in the whole wide world.

And she forced herself to wake up. She so hoped to God that it was all oneiric, so she could leave it all behind. But it was not.

And it was just her drowning in a boat that was supposed to be paddled by two.