I'm guessing we're both aware of each other. We are both sitting on our own, having a drink, smoking a cigarrette, writing scattered thoughts on a notebook. I'm writing about you; there is a chance, albeit remote, that you're writing about me. Probably we're both wondering the same: who are you? If this was a movie, I'd leave within some minutes; but before I would, I'd rip this page off, fold it in four, and drop it by your table. You'd read it as I'd walk away. Then you'd get up in a rush and walk right after me. You'd catch up with me outside in the street. It'd be raining, and we wouldn't care. We'd stare into each other's eyes and know, suddenly and irresistibly, that we were meant to be together, and we'd hold each other and kiss under the pouring rain. Life, however, is but a pale imitation of the famous technicolour sequences I once saw and believed in. As such, we'll both remain silent. We'll go on writing, now and them glancing at each other furtively, averting our eyes when they happen to meet. You'll go on waiting on whoever you're waiting for; I, waiting for no one, will finish my drink and leave. Without a word, without a note. Without looking back. Without rain outside. You won't read my words. You'll forget about them the second I walk out the door. The one you were waiting for will arrive at last, and all will be forgotten. And the only memory of this moment will be these words, describing your dark curly hair resting down your shoulders. Describing your big eyes, surrounded by shadow. Describing the way your lips hold the cigarrette frozen still seconds before you light it up. Describing the way your hand holds the pen as you write. Describing the way your feet dance quietly under the table, following the rhythm of the random music. Words describing you, fixing your image of this moment better than any photography would. Words that you'll never read, written by a stranger whom your eyes shall never meet again. This is how things are in real life. Colourless. Grayish, dull, never meant to be.