Even though I loved the garden, I peeked around the branches of the tree sometimes.

There was this beautiful field filled with bright red poppies and long stretches of flowing grass, green as the grass should be. The sun would make it look a little bit more yellow from time to time, and the wind could make the grass dance.

In the middle of this very field was a tree. I often looked at it, and when I went out into the fields, I walked past it.
I did that more and more, for the walks made me feel part of nature, and gave a feeling that I can’t describe in any other way except for… peaceful.

The tree is still there. But something had changed.

Sometimes, during my walks, a girl was there.
I think she might be reading a book.
And I started thinking about her.

Sometimes I went a little closer. Sometimes I felt like she knew I was there.
I tried to see what kind of book she was reading, but I could never tell.  

After a while, I found enough courage to sit next to her.
She didn’t really acknowledge me at first.
She just kept reading her book.

But I kept sitting next to her.
Sometimes I peeked a little, but I could never see a title.

We started talking.
I absolutely loved those talks and looked forward to talk to her again – but I always wondered if she’d rather read the book and be without me.

I brought my book too, once or twice, and showed it to her. She could read some lines if she wanted too. 
She would then tell me a little bit about her book, but she wouldn’t let me read one sentence. 
I thought she maybe needed time.

One time when I arrived, she was waiting for me.
We talked some more about my book. When she wasn’t looking, I tried to read her book
but I couldn’t.

Sometimes I got mad.

I got mad but I would never show her.
That would make her scared, and she would
never talk to me again.

But one time, my anger kept burning.
I felt the need to confront her.
She didn’t understand, maybe she never understood – 
I wanted to know more about her book, like she knew about mine.
Like how she asked questions and loved my book.

I wanted to love her book too.
But she didn’t let me.
And I started to realize some things.

I should never have brought my book. And I never should have had these expectations for her – because she would never have done the same in return. 

I kept sitting next to her, and we talked – but it wasn’t the same. 
Sometimes, she sat with her back to me.
We didn’t laugh anymore. 
And the talks weren’t what they used to be.

And I started to miss her. 

I missed her even though she was still there.
She didn’t want to see me anymore; her head deeply bend forward while reading her book. 
I couldn’t bear it.

I kept going on my walks, still looking at the tree.
She was there, sometimes.
It didn’t matter if she was there or not.
I always missed her.

The girl and the book.

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