From across a room, he didn’t look like much. Average in height, average in build. His face was kindly, yet plain. Truly, he was as unremarkable as the beige coloring of the walls, or the dull white tile of the floor.

But we were in love once.

Beneath it all, his neutral expression, his undistinguished style, his mediocre hair cut, was a heart so warm and lively, that when he would touch me the tips of my fingers would tingle. When we would embrace all color would turn to gold. When we would kiss, all troubles would disappear.

We were in love once.

Every morning, he would sing in the shower. The loud-off-key-know-you-can’t-sing-but sing-anyway kind of singing. He would make pancakes, because although he wasn’t incredibly apt in the kitchen, pancakes were the one thing he knew he could do well, and so he made them everyday. Every night, when he would walk through the door, returning from work, he would meet me in the living room, tell me he loved me, and we’d lay on the couch together until we fell asleep.

We were in love once.

The night we ended, my world shattered. He said he just didn’t feel they way he did before. His beautiful blue eyes looked distant, different than they had all the times I had looked into them before. He said he was sorry. And he left. And when he left, with him went the light, the warmth.

This is what I saw now, as I observed him from across the room. Years ago, we were in love once. And since then, we’ve become no more than strangers. He was plain, unremarkable, unnoticeable. Average. He wasn’t special, or at least, he didn’t look to be. But as I looked at him, all I could think was how beautiful he was. How extraordinary and lively and chirpy. How brilliant, how loving, how outgoing.

But, just by looking at him, none of this could be evident, and it was hard for me to believe

We were in love once.