He noticed her from across the street. It was not the first time he had seen her, with her flowing chestnut- brown hair and her acoustic guitar. He would watch her sometimes, watch her fingers stroke the strings lovingly, strumming both unfamiliar and nostalgic patterns. But that was not why he had been following her for months, or had it already been a year? When she sings...he sighed in remembrance. She was his muse, but he would never tell her this because he had never spoken to her. He lacked the courage.
***
