she saw herself in numbers. She saw herself made up of her weight number. Her height number. The size of her waist. How many followers she had on tumblr. How many marshmallows she could fit in her mouth at once. How many shots it took to get her drunk. Her candidate number she had to write on every test. She was statistically minded. She was in the 10% for this, and 50% of people were like her because of this, and she was one of 7 billion people.
To me, she was the 1%. She was more than her numbers. She was the way she laughed, all the different ways she laughed. She was the way she flicked her hair about when she'd just washed it, and when she caught me staring, it was the way she pretended to be a horse and flicked her hair about even more vigorously. She was her smile, and the pretty contortions her face took when she cried. She was how she could never quite be comfortable in a cinema with me. She was how she always held my hand when we ate, and stroked my arm when we lay on the sofa. She was how she fit under my chin, and she was how she walked in heels. She was how she wore long dresses with converse, and put on fake nails but had too many things to do so she'd only have 3 left by the end of the day. She was her pocket knife, a very beautiful hand made thing that she always had with her. She was how her fingers moved when she was texting. She was her nervous tick, when she was afraid or anxious she would rub one thumb with the other. She was how she put on mascara. She was the silly face she'd pull when she was concentrating. She was her beautiful curves, and perfect waist. She was how she made me feel like my shoulders were so big and manly when she put her arms round me. She was her huge hands, which were always sweaty and gross but I got used to it. She was how she loved the earth, and sang to it. She was my love and hers, mixed together.
And now, all of that was gone. And it was never coming back.