A friend of mine, whose flawless presentations of things evoke emotions of me always, without failure. Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls. I present to you, the works of Geraldine Chia. Admire, Envy, and kiss her for this literal composition.

Knowing Angels
His heart skipped a beat the minute she entered the room. Her face was glowing, eyes shimmering as she took in the dance floor in a single glance. The guys next to him gathered around, all eyes set on the pretty girl with flowing blonde hair. One tugged at his shirt, as if to ask who she was.
That's my girl. He wanted to answer. But she really wasn't.
But she had been, though. A long, long time ago. Back when they were barely sixteen.
He remembered when they'd first met- freshmen year. She was in all his classes, sat next to him in Calculus, and forever smelt of fresh cream and cinnamon and vanilla. He'd gotten hooked on that scent ever since.
But he knew she was his the minute he first heard her speak. Her voice was smooth like velvet, so soft, so sweet. He'd wanted to capture it and play it again and again and again and drown in the mixture of her voice and his.
He remembered her. He remembered the day she became his.
It was raining, and he'd been sleeping, half listening to the raindrops as they splashed onto the muddy roadsides. It was comforting- blissful silence that he loved. All at once, the crash of lightning in the sky sent forth an ignitation in his heart, and he suddenly thought about her. How beautiful her olive green eyes were when they shone, how soft and silky her blonde curls were when the brushed against his hand, how flawless she seemed to be from head to feet. He sat up at the realisation, wondering if it were possible to fall in love so quickly.
He got out his coat, slipped his cell phone into one of its large pockets and rushed out the front door, grabbing the keys off the holder stand. He didn't bother to take an umbrella.
He ran up the next street after his, looked for her house. He rang the door bell, but she wasn't in.
He cursed and ran back into the downpour. He shoved his hands into his pocket as raindrops slid off his eyelashes one by one, and his hair stuck to his face in strands. He was going to find her, damnit.
He squinted and looked around, before briefly making out a tiny figure at the end of the road. His heart stopped, and that was how he knew.
He ran toward the figure, blood coarsing through his system. His face was flushed when he met her, and he was breathing heavier than usual but he didn't mind. Nor did she.
"Hello." She said sweetly, her eyes alit with a certain smile and gladness in them.
"Hi." He said. Suddenly, his mouth felt dry. What was he supposed to say?
He took off his coat, draped it around her tiny form. "You must be cold."
She nodded. "Thank you."
As if on impulse, she then wrapped her arms around his slight rippled torso, feeling his blood heat as her body touched his. Her face was half buried in his shirt, wetting it all the more. But he didn't mind too much.
He threw his arms around her tight, leaned his cheek to her forehead and swayed slightly. She melded into his hold, feeling safe, content and happy for the first time. Her eyes drew up to meet his slowly, their faces mere inches from each other.
He brought up one hand to cup the side of her face, mouth curling up at the sides into a genuine smile. She mirrored his actions, letting her fingers dance lightly over his before pressing his cold fingers to the warmth of her lips.
It was then he knew. She was his from that moment on.
Eight years later, here he was, wondering about everything. He was still staring at her, the way he used to when he was a freshman.
She passed by his table, and he smelt the wonderful blend of vanilla and cinnamon once more. His pulse soared, and he felt his stomach turn in flips.
It was her. It was most definitely her. No one could ever make him feel that way, the way that only she could.
He finally took his eyes off her, tracing a finger over the rim of his martini before tipping the whole shot into his mouth. It burned, but he didn't really feel it much.
Who is she, man?
Someone was asking, over and over again. He stared at his empty shot glass longer, at first pretending not to hear the question, then suddenly answering.
Nobody.
But she was. She was the girl he'd always loved, always wanted, even though she would never feel the same. She was the one who could make him feel so dizzy and jumpy and make his palms clammy. She was the girl with the pretty green eyes and long, long blonde curls in his Calculus class who always didn't know how to answer half the questions posed to her. She was his.
But she would never know.
-=-=-
Across the bar, a pretty, twenty four year old lady tossed her hair haughtily over her tanned shoulders. In one sweeping glance, she surveyed the dance hall with her pretty, olive green eyes. Her eyes caught something- a twenty something year old man fingering his shot glass, who had the most gorgeous hazel eyes and the most addictive smile that made you want to smile when he did.
Her mouth parted open. Could it be-
She tilted her head to an angle, just the way she always did when she was perplexed.
Was it...
The faint tug on her elbow distracted her, and she found her date whispering into her ear.
Who's that you're looking at?
Painfully, she tore her eyes away from his hunched over form and back into her dates' eyes. She smiled a plastic smile.
Nobody.
He was utterly convinced. And as he turned away to get their drinks, she stole another look at him and remembered, suddenly, how beautiful he always looked no matter what, how silky his voice was whispering into her ear.
She couldn't help a second glance. But this time, she found him staring back at her.
And in the instant their eyes met, a melding of emotions took place, and she felt her heart shatter into a million pieces. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream for all those years wasted. She wanted to tell him, wanted him to hug her and let her feel close and safe. So, so very safe.
And in that split second, they both turned away, not knowing what to say to each other. But they knew.
She knew.
He knew.
That's my man, she wanted to say.
And that's my girl, he whispered, half to his empty martini shot glass.