Standard disclaimer applies.
When will you come again? I miss the gentle breeze caressing the gentle arch of your nose, tousling your faint pink hair.
The sweet tangy smell, her unique smell, was one of a kind. He could not place a name on it. It smelled floral, yet it was too spicy. It was not cinnamon, no; it was not the sweet-smelling lavender his ex loves so much. It was intoxicating, it was addictive.
He had always thought he would need no one, and he didn't want to need her, didn't want to depend on her so, but he had never thought one could be so addictive.
Oh, he scorned. If he was that mighty and strong he wouldn't be here every day, the spot where he first saw her many mornings ago. He had waited there ever since, three minutes past seven, every day, on the lone bench at the corner of the quiet park. When will you come again?
He remembered that sweet smile that graced her features, how it jumped at him, and how he all but gasp at her beauty.
He remembered the gentle arch of her nose, how the wind, gentle and loving caressed her sun-kissed cheeks.
He remembered how it felt when she smiled, how pleasing it was, and how it felt as though something was lodged in his throat.
He remembered swallowing, trying to respond or look suave – the look that had charmed so many before, but all he did was blush slightly when she caught him staring.
He remembered how his hands ache to remove the straw hat settling so comfortably on top of her pink head, how the humble hat made her a picture of innocence and grace.
He remembered the dress she wore, down to every minute detail and stitch, the colour of the daisies, which covered her petite form. He remembered musing how comfortable she would be, tucked in his arms – her head just below his chin.
He remembered bending down, plucking a small blue flower by the foot of the bench and mutely handing over to her – and her shy flush of pink, the gentle look of surprise in her deep green eyes as she nodded and reached out.
He never thought any sight would be so addictive, never thought it would haunt him at night, or that it would take his breath away, no matter how many times he thought of her.
As he walks around town, he imagines the fine clothes he sees on mannequins to be on her body, gently hugging every curve his eyes yet to explore and devour, and how he rushes into the store to pay for that garment he fell in love with.
When the clothes meant for her fills up the huge closet in his house, he knew he had fallen.
The better part of him scorns at his naiveté, dismisses his dreams.
He had played the different scenarios where they would finally meet again, in the park, in the supermarket, on a mission. How shocked she would look, how beautiful she would be when that smile he loves graces her face, how he would give up everything to stay in that very moment forever.
Her smile would be the only thing he would see at night, the brilliant, radiant arch of her thin lips, her every eyelash and every freckle on her nose.
How he would carry a camera with him wherever he goes, taking photos of her – everything and everywhere, immortalizing her innocent smile, framed and hung up on every inch the walls of his apartment could offer.
How he wished he could bottle up her sweet scent, to carry along with him on missions – when everything he could see and smell is that thick metallic smell of blood, and how that smell would keep him alive to see her just once more.
How he wished he could put her in his pocket, to take her out and admire whenever he feels so lost, and how her bright smile would guide him along.
How he wished he had a name for her, to carve in the platinum couple rings he bought specially for her, to show her that Neji would treasure her forever, so he could finally present them to her one day.
Oh, how he wished he had her name, so he could finally place a name when he dreams of her every night.
He was almost certain her voice would be as sweet as how she looks, like pure honey – even though he had never heard her speak once, or how soft her pale hands would feel when he grips her in a tight embrace.
He wished he had her name, so he can promise her that 'Neji would love you forever'.
When written, I listened to : When Will I See Your Face Again (Jamie Scott & The Town), Standing In The Rain (JS & TT), Hero (Enrique Iglesias), The Way I Do (Marco Hernandez).
I had no intention to continue writing this, for this was quite a spur of a moment, but I could never answer to myself if I left it hanging like this, where the sweet and slightly obsessive Neji never found the love he was pining for.