All the Unsaid

Write from the heart. Let the words breathe the same air as that of your soul. Hide within fiction all that you can
never say.

They were so young, back when their worlds first collided on a note strung high on a violin string, at some street corner in the middle of the fall months. She was just nineteen, only a sophomore in college; he was but a year older. Among the hundreds that attended the music festival that day, he drew her attention. She was intrigued by the bubble of calm contemplation around him, by the quiet observance with which he watched the violinist, by the angular lines of his face, his tall, lanky build, the delicately flexible structure of his hands. He had the build of an athlete, the face of someone who spent his days under the wind and sun, and the hands of an artist. Yes, she was intrigued, as intrigued as she was even further back, in a time of grass and open Midwestern air.

Was it even fair to him to serve six years as nothing more than an echo of what she was looking for? Because, she realizes now, that everything that she loved in him, was but an echo, a shadow of something much more, that she loved much more in someone else.

Thoughts?