Uncertain Her

She walks by, and the world shifts.

I tell myself I won’t look, but my eyes betray me. They search for her in a sea of faces, and the moment they find her, everything else fades. The noise, the crowd, the doubts—gone. It’s just her, existing in a way that makes my mind crumble and rebuild all at once.

I don’t even know her. Not really. Not in the way that should make someone feel this much. But I do. And that’s the problem.

Because something about her feels like danger wrapped in beauty, like a flame that invites you closer just to burn you alive. Maybe it’s the way she moves with an air of untouchable confidence, or the way she talks, like every word is meant to be heard, but none are meant to be understood. She’s unpredictable. Uncertain. The kind of person who could leave scars without ever meaning to.

And yet, every time I see her, I forget. Forget the warnings my mind screams at me. Forget the caution I promise myself I’ll keep. Forget the ache of betrayals I’ve never even experienced but somehow fear with every part of me.

I want to talk to her. The urge is unbearable, like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall will hurt but still leaning forward just to see what it feels like. But I hold back. Not because I don’t want to—God, I do—but because I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust that I won’t lose control, won’t dive headfirst into something I already know could break me.

So I stand still. I watch from a distance. And I remind myself that some fires are meant to be admired, not touched.

And yet…

She walks by again, and the world shifts once more.