Reaching The Top

Nothing about him came softly.
Not quiet, serene, or gentle.
Not unassuming or calm or mild.
He blew in, a boisterous wind that gave you little choice but to pay attention.
And as soon as she looked, she was entranced.
Gone, like Alice down the rabbit hole, lost to a world of whimsical imagination and him, him, him.
In every action, every word, every thought, there he was smiling, joking, laughing, capturing her heart without the slightest clue.
He was a good thing for her, in that way.
He taught her that butterflies really could be a good thing.
That smitten was in no way an outdated word.
That fairy tales were alive and well and playing out in her world. She looked at him with feelings that had long been absent from her heart.
With hope and promise.
With giddy excitement and nervous giggles.
With true joy.
He was her summer breeze.
Her fresh air.
Her change of scenery.
And that sliver of hope, with it's peculiar strength held firm through doubt and fear and angry words. While everyone doubted, she yet hoped.
Because she knew as they didn't the way his eyes constantly searched her face, watching for a smile or some envoy of friendship.
She knew as they did not the nervous glances exchanged between the two.
She saw in him the promise they refused to see in the world and she let it fill her up.
Bursting with nerves and smiles and pent up exhilaration, she set her sights on that impossibly high peak of joy, certain for some reason that he could aid her in the journey.
And she found solace in the idea of resting beside him when they reached the top.