A girl with her unfinished tale

One fine morning, after so long, hard and broken mornings of her, a girl finally found of what is called as good cup of tea. By good it doesn't necessarily have to tick all the perfect tea criterias' boxes, well just by having one that "suffices" can always be sufficient for 'one fine morning'. That was all in the girl's thinking; to have just 'fine'. Because, after all, perfect is almost too impossible to have. So then she has accepted, the fact that, after so many hard and broken mornings, that day's morning was fine, in fact, perfect; in her very own definition.

On that fine morning, everything wasn't that perfect to be honest, but just in place she must have stated first. 

Everything just in place, as to what the girl has in mind. She had her cup of tea in her hand as usual, at one rare but familiar cafe, under just fine weather, and being surrounded by strangers. Well, being surrounded by house full of strangers has always been something that the girl would fascinate about. Sometimes, just sometimes, she loves strangers more than she loves those souls that she has bleed and cried for. Isn't it strange, somehow? To love a stranger? A soul you haven't yet discovered?

But there's an irony in loving and falling in love with strangers, because that's when all would look like an open book; something so interesting and fascinating. To non-judgementalist, strangers are always fine human being. To readers, strangers are like a new book that full with new tales and stories to be discovered; something so dearly like having a new toy to a gamer. And yet to her, strangers all above that has been mentioned. 

Everything about strangers just so new, fresh, and strong. 
But it doesn't stop there, good and fresh new thing won't last. They get heard and discovered, and then all those excitements finally would turn into either two options, to be her favourite or the other way around; to be the cup of tea, or the other way around; that her just another cups of tea. With nothing to be fascinated about. With nothing to be bragged about. Too plain with nothing so fancy to tell. But one good thing about her loving strangers, is that, she knows well. 

She knows well, when the heart digress. She knows well, when the heart clicks. She knows well, on who to talk, and what to talk. She knows well enough, for us to say, she knows well.

On that fine morning, like all the readers of this tale would expect, she talked to one stranger. In this plot, still, it has nothing to be fascinated about. Just an ordinary event with no touch of anything so mysterious and melancholics, but just fine meeting for a soul that has always been two things; mysterious and melancholics. Just like her. 

But let's move on to something idealistic, like the stranger she met. A guy, the stranger is a guy. The tallest one in height, as you may judge from appearence. Well, girls are something like this to be exact; generally they don't go much for outer aspects. They would be fascinated more to give points on gentlemen aspects. Now, this quite interesting, gentlemen gestures always are so lame, ordinary and expected. But that's how points are given. At least, by her; this character I'm projecting about. 

How easy. 
Yes, how easy to be the guy. And how easy to please the girl. 
Or maybe, fate just made things easy for them. 

Or, in the most probable events, they just take love things so easily that they claim it is. 

If not any, then what is? What are they? And how did they do it? 

Because by conversations after conversations, the stranger is then no longer a stranger but a friend. A perfect friend to talk, a perfect friend to chill over something serious, more specific, just fine to be her cup of tea, she said. Idealistic has then became something as magical as realistic. 

The reality was, there's love between them. And they know it.

Now, this is quite troublesome to tell, for her to think that meeting a stranger is the sweetest (read: scariest). Because you never know. She never knew either, of what is sweet and what is scary. Of what is being loved, and what is being left. What is having too much things to say, and then nothing at all? 

For love, she has lost of her 'knowing well'. 

What is, now? 

Remember when she tells, that strangers were like books 
And then she doesn't go for good and looks
In fact, she was looking for something more magical and more mysterious
Well, she must have known now 
That the stranger she met that day wasn't even a book 
In fact, was just some wrong pages
Of her in reaching her grown ups
And her fine morning isn't fine at all. even, fine was never enough 
At least for her

For this is her unfinished tale 
For more to be discovered, so that she can tell..

Fuck this tale. It ain't worth your time, I know. 
I will just leave it here. 


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