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Thursday, September 22

I ask, but I never get a straight answer.

She couldn't get used to it. The instinctive smile that landed on her face every time she saw him. It didn't matter if his brows were furrowed, lips set in a scowl, which they so often were. There was something about him, his unruly hair piled on top of his head, his large, expressive eyes, slight slouch as he walked, hands in his pockets. She couldn't get used to it, and she most certainly couldn't help it. But no matter where, no matter how often she saw him, she smiled. She couldn't help but smile.

And every so often, her insistence, her persistence, her gentle teasing and her smile won her the response that she was always looking for. Shaking his head, he would look at her, head bowed. And he would smile back. It changed his face every time, like a cloud passing from in front of the sun -- he radiated a warmth and beauty that he hid so often from the world.

She couldn't help but wonder what had happened that made him so sad.

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