I watch her from a distance.
Far enough away that she shouldn't see me looking but close enough to catch her facial expressions as she sips her coffee. She's sat on a bench by the river, her headphones playing something that's making her head move and she's basking in what spring sunshine London is blessing us with. She's oblivious to most things. The people glaring at her for spreading her bag across the bench, the toddler screaming nearby, the argument brewing a few benches down between a couple about to break up, and most of all to me. She hasn't noticed me watching with the same coffee as her from the bridge beside her. To most it must look like I'm looking over the Thames and even if she decided to glimpse upwards she'd most likely think the same. It is a wonderful sight seeing spot after all, that's why she comes here so often. She has a small smile on her lips as she studies her surroundings. Her head bobbing slightly as she directs her attention to each of the buildings that sit opposite her. She studies them as though it's her first time, but we both know it's the third time she's sat there this week. There is something so calm about watching her, something that doesn't cease to make me smile. She has no idea how beautiful her happiness looks, in fact, she might not even register this bliss as anything out of the ordinary. This is just another day for her, and that just makes it even more incredible. The way she holds her coffee, the way she thoughtlessly plays with the wire of her headphones, the way she blows an unruly strand of hair away from eyes... She has no idea how perfect she is. Her lips curl into a grin as she looks down at her phone, and that's when my heart starts to sink. She presses something and starts to babble excitedly, packing up her bits and readying herself to leave. I'm so tempted to stop her. To jump down from my balcony and pull her to me, pull her back to the bench, back to the placidity of the bench. The bench is safety, a little island of her own happiness. Why does she think it'll get any better if she leaves it? But I've watched her do this hundreds of times. She collects herself, laughing at something she's said. She smooths down her dress, readjusts her bag and then she walks away from me.
It doesn't matter how many times I watch her, or how many scenarios in which I think I can stop her, I have to let her go. It's torture. Every step she takes is one towards misery, trauma, the bitter future that lies for her without my influence. Why can't I help her? Why can't I at least warn her? Why can't I tell her that this is the last time she'll look like this? That this is the last blissful moment that she'll have. She flips her hair over her shoulder as she adjusts her bag and I catch that ever radiant hope in her eyes as she looks back. A wide smile on her face as she prepares herself for what she thinks is the next adventure. It catches me. My heart leaps into my throat as tears prickle in my eyes.
And all I can think of, is how fucking weak I am. How disgusting I must be to let her walk away from me.
