There's nothing magical about the way we met. You were a stranger to me, and long after we stayed on that level just below acquaintance. I knew your name, your laugh, your eyes. I knew no matter what I wanted you in my life. We met by chance, for the luck of that you were friends with the sister of my best friend. For the luck she was able to drive, and we couldn't. For the luck of her offering to take us all to eat- the McDonald's across the school's street. I wish I could recall the color of the sky that night, as it set across the practice field. I wish I could recite the way the conversation, but all I have is a fragment of a joking statement of "if you don't remove your hands I'm not driving."

There's nothing magical about the way we met.
I wish I could recall the color of the sky, but I can state the color of your deep umber eyes and how they capture a sparkle of gold in the moonlight. I wish I could recite the conversation, but I remembered the highlights of the night: all of us working our faces tight in smile that couldn't brake as we joked about drivers driving.
But you made the earth feel like it was spinning. And I laughed so hard my face hurt.
No one will ever sigh in want of the way we met, there's nothing spectacular about it. Writers won't craft it into novels, or movies, or songs.
There wasn't anything special about the way we met...
Not to anyone else who isn't me.