The Perfect Stranger

I don't remember you. I don't remember your face or your attire. Neither do I remember the date we met. I don't even remember the year of our encounter. I do, however, remember the season. It was a monsoon morning. And I was in a rush to go to my detestable university. The day was like any other thousands I had before. But then you came. And then just as suddenly as you left. It was like you were never really there. But you were. And you're the perfect stranger I never wished to meet.

We didn't talk, even though I really wish we had. I never was the approaching type. Ask, and you shall receive, as they say. But you never really do, I guess. So many stories remain untold just because of the cowardice of the heart.