He tried to reach her but the bus had already started its engines and was in departure process. He put his hand inside his coats pocket and there it was, safe and still, it was right there for him to touch it. It was a lock of her hair, black and cold, 38 wisps; he had counted it countless times. Whenever he was sitting on the beach, whenever he was reading a romance, whenever there was a kissing farewell scene on the movies he watched. Saying goodbye to his feeling was out of question, he had the prove of his love inside his pocket wrapped with a golden ribbon, so it could have this perfect contrast with the black and cold 38 wisps. But again, he never knew what love was, so he let love go away.
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