I knew it was her as soon as she entered the building. My heart started racing, palms were sweating, my body's way of letting me know she was near me as if I needed anymore clues. Instinctively I move towards her keeping a safe distance of course, I have no idea what would happen if I actually got speak to her again after so long.

I've thought about her almost every day. My hearts skipped a beat at every photograph on page 6. I've dreamt about her, I've fallen asleep thinking of her simply in the hopes that she'll visit me when I finally drift off. I've found myself writing down the details as soon as I wake up, god forbid I forget what it felt like to finally be in her arms even if it was only in my head. I dream about kisses, hot and frenzied as if neither of us can get enough of each other. Of course I dream about sex, fast and hard or slow and intense my imagination holds no bounds. What worries me the most are the dreams about simple things like hand holding, stolen kisses, breakfast in bed, lazy Sundays watching movies in the entertainment room... well the entertainment room my imagination created for me.

There is no way on earth I could ever have a conversation with this woman ever again. Maybe it's not even her that makes me feel this way; it's probably the version of her I have made up in my head. I highly doubt Miranda Priestly would moan softly as I rubbed her back as she worked on the book after a long day at the Runway offices.

I've moved closer now so I quickly down the contents of the champagne I must have picked up on the way. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart as I watch her strike up conversation with some couple across the room. I can smell her perfume, which of course has to be in my head there's no way I'd be able to pick up her scent from this far away. I watch as she walks to a secluded part of the exhibition and I don't even need to think about it as my legs carry towards her.
She's not there when I turn the corner, which is probably for the best. Instead I listen as the woman next to me talks about the painting I've ended up standing in front of. I'd probably have something to say back if I was paying any attention to what she was saying. The noise of my heart is getting louder and I'm finding it hard to breath. I can feel one side of face begin to burn up which can only mean she's standing next to me.

The other woman continues to talk but if I try hard enough I can focus on Miranda breathing next to me. I wonder if she's going to recognise me, it hasn't been that long since I walked away from her abandoning her in the middle of Paris Fashion week. Against my better judgement I turn round to find her looking straight into my eyes. She doesn't speak and I look away. The logical thing to do would be to break the silence... the worst thing that could happen would be that she ignored me, but I couldn't bear that. Miranda ignoring me in reality would destroy my Miranda, the woman that has consumed my every thought for the past year and a half. So I walk away. I don't turn in her direction; I just walk towards the door.

Soon enough I am outside leaning against a wall. I feel faint so I have to get my breathing under control. I have an odd feeling of adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I'm pretty sure my hands are shaking. I finally saw her again, Miranda Priestly in the flesh and she is just as amazing as I remember. I chuckle at my own stupidity. Just because she looks like my Miranda does not mean Miranda Priestly is about to chase me out onto the street and declare her undying love for me. No for now I am going to enjoy the warm evening and walk back to my apartment. I know I'll keep dreaming about my Miranda and maybe one day I'll get over her.