I could only observe him from this distance, for any closer and I’d have lost myself. I watched his days unfold, he was my muse in this way, but we’d never spoken alone. I was jealous of his stunning form, but then, so was everyone else. I ached to feel his joy and pain, but knew this situation was definitely best.

I could almost see him now, as he walked in through that door, his hair highlighted blond and wind-blown. He had a balance to his features that implored a stranger’s trust. Sipping my coffee nervously, he embraced the man he loved. I blush at times, knowing the lifestyle they lived, invariably regretting my society’s “norms”.

They eat, they cry, make love, and die, the characters we so love to write. These people are real, conjured in our minds, people we’ve seen but have never met.