...a love story?...

She showed me the picture this morning. "Hey", she said, "don't you know this guy?". I glanced down casually at the generic man in the picture, brown hair and glasses. Like how many other men in the city. "Nope", I said back, and looked back down at my text book.

She was insistent though. "Really, I think it's that guy. I'm sure of it. Look at the picture again". So I did, and this time when the dawn of realisation crept over me, it almost took my breath away. Because it was you, of course it was. A little thinner, a little smoother (facial hair was never your thing, anyway) and jeans. That was new. I don't think I'd ever seen you in anything so... mainstream. How could I not have seen it right away?

We now contemplate the nature of love - could I ever have been in love with you, do you think? I told myself I was. But then, I told myself a lot of things. When it comes down to it though, I didn't recognize you. I had to look closer, and then farther to realise it was you. At first glance I was convinced it wasn't. But squinting, with a little distance, the edges muddied - then your face started resembling what I had in my mind. And even then, I questioned it.

I thought about this for a bit, about what it means that I wouldn't have known you for a stranger. I wondered what would happen if we ran into each other on the street one day, and I still didn't recognize you. What does that mean? Maybe it means I loved you from far away, when your borders are blurred and smoothing over the ragged edges of your flaws and past mistakes. But thrust into relief, all of you in evidence, the image is too sharp with no noise reduction, and hurts my eyes, looks nothing like I remember.

Everything was illuminated. This was why we wouldn't work: because I loved you perfect, and you're too real.