Hannah Kuduk

United States


April 21, 2015



They never believed in love at first sight. They never believed in the magic of wishes that come true, not by coincidence, but by the pure power of wishing hard enough. I don't blame them. Maybe they were cynical or broken-hearted. Maybe they weren't searching for meant-to-be. Maybe they were tired and spent their time blowing smoke rings out of their apartment windows, because goddamnit, there was nothing better to do. Nothing beautiful to see. Nothing important enough to write or sing or shout from the rooftops. Nothing. Maybe they'd never seen a face that looked like the cool clarity of the ocean, and the warm ease of a sunrise at the same time. They probably didn't believe that such things existed. 


But he existed. 

That boy existed. 

He didn't only exist. He danced and laughed and oozed passion and burned through souls with the intent, blue and green comfort and mystery of his eyes. You didn't want those eyes to disconnect with yours. Never ever. You wanted to be sure that you'd stare into them again. Be sure that they were real in the first place. 


Today I don't know if his eyes were real or if they remember mine. It shouldn't matter. It does though. 


I was thirteen then, the time when the other girls were just beginning to figure out what they truly wanted. I already knew. I wore a strange red hat that had one eye and a crazy mouth. I saw him for the first time. It wasn't technically winter yet, but the snow said otherwise. He looked like the spring though. All hope, and newness. I saw him. His nose and lips and cheekbones. His dark hair and those eyes and an easy, crooked toothed grin, one which he seemed to be insecure about. 


I saw him. I saw him and I knew that I wouldn't forget that face tomorrow or next year or in million lifetimes. His soul was made of the same ingredients as mine, but just rearranged into a different, magnificent order.


Tonight. Fate. I saw him again. 

He was older. He was enigmatic. He was fleeting. He was everything. He couldn't stand still. He jiggled his knee and tapped his foot. He smelled like smoke and cologne and wanderlust.




That's the problem with loving wandering souls. You want to keep him in your pocket because you're selfish and you want his spirit all to yourself. But he's addictive. Everyone feels the same way that you do. He touches the hearts of everyone who looks into those eyes. And he leaves us because he wants us to chase him. We do. He wants us to want him.  We do. 


So maybe it was love at first sight. Was it rare, or special? Was it everything I hoped it would be? Not when a fragment of me will always be wherever he is. Not when I want to bury myself in those eyes like they're a blanket, and call them home. I wondered then, if home is never in the same place, then is it really home?


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  • April 21, 2015 - 7:32pm (Now Viewing)

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