Those eyes are anything but brown. Brown is boring, and she hates boring. Instead, they’re cinnamon, no- chocolate, maybe caramel, or even sweet, sweet, cascading maple syrup, just anything but brown. She hates that.

-and she hates movies with predictable endings, but every time she watches Titanic I see tears roll down her cheek. She hides her face and squeezes my hand, I will never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go.
She chews gum religiously. She chews it and blows a bubble and pops it and chews it and blows a bubble and pops it and chews it and blows a bubble and pops it and she does it again and again and again, and you’re praying to a God you barely understand that she’ll stop-
…but at the same time, that rhythm flows through your veins and her essence illuminates the atmosphere, and in that instant-
-you are untouchable.
She’s got this sweater, this bright red sweater, and she wears it all the time, and it sticks out like a sore thumb, or maybe it’s like a diamond in the rough.
Sometimes her words spill out too fast and she can’t keep herself from stuttering, and she blushes and pulls at the strings of that damn sweater and hopes you don’t notice, but how can one overlook a moment so innocent and beautiful? 
Her smile isn’t just breathtaking, it’s the feeling of bare feet shuffling across plush carpet, chocolate milkshakes on granite bar tops, and the song “September” by Earth, Wind, and Fire. And her hair isn’t just strands of blonde, it’s rays of sunshine, and I know that’s cliché, and she hates clichés, but because of her, my mind is too plethoric, too tumultuous, to embellish.
She performs newspaper headlines out loud, but never bothers to read the stories; when she’s nervous she counts backwards, but in multiples of fours- she leaves the door shut, but the windows open.
Even in the winter, the windows were open. I’d tell her it was too cold and she’d say, “come closer.” I’d tell her she was crazy and she’d say I was just scared. When she told me she loved me, her lips would move but her eyes would do the talking, and well,
God, maybe I was lost.
With one glance, those eyes offered me an escape, but I chose captivity. They begged me to get up and live, but I sat and existed.
She told me she wanted me to be happy, not just content. She asked me why I always had to be so safe and why I’d never been to Italy or colored outside the lines. She wanted to climb buildings and steal stars from the sky. And I just wanted to survive. She hates boring.
She used to tell me I listened well but didn’t say enough. The funny thing about “enough” is that no matter how close you get, you never quite reach it. She told me I had been nice, but there are over one million words in the dictionary and ‘nice’ just feels… like a predictable ending. And the unsinkable ship sinks, Rose lets go, and I’ve got no more threads to pull.
She thanked me for memories, made me promise I’d keep in touch.
She shut the door behind her, and left the windows open.