I was on one of those soul searching aimless rides when I happened to meet her. She climbed the bus and sat next to me, unconcerned about the smoke my cigarette was producing or my pierced and tattooed skin. I mean children are afraid of that shit but no not her. She gave me a smile and nosily asked me my destination. When I said nowhere in particular, she wasn’t amazed instead she made it sound like some kind of an adventure and expressed that she would like to do that someday; not today because today she was going to meet her grandma who lives quite far away.

“Are girls supposed to smoke?” She broke the silence, yet again.
“Aren’t they? What else aren’t they supposed to do? I cross questioned her quite irritatingly.
She took this as an invitation to chitchat in that long 5 hours ride and faced me while making herself comfortable.
“People say a whole lot of things that we girls aren’t supposed to do. But I don’t think so. I think everybody should get to do whatever they wanna do. YOLO, right? “She said in a haughty tone, quite mature for someone of her age.

I chuckled at her “YOLO” remark and she smiled back at me. I didn’t want to engage in anymore of these talks so I went back to my book to discourage her from chatting. But that wouldn’t stop that rebellious little Satan.
“Is that a love story? “She interfered.
I nodded, still firm in avoiding chitchat.
“What it’s about?”
“About love. Like all love stories are.” I blatantly said.
“Love? I want to know about that. Tell me about it.” she asked sounding excited.
“I don’t know much to talk about it and little of what I have known about it won’t paint a pretty picture. And besides, you are still little to know love. Read about it in a book or something.”
“Love doesn’t see age and numbers -that I had read in a book “she said smugly.”But I want to know the real thing. Tell me about your experience in love.” She added.

Her question made me think and remember every encounter I had or thought I had with love. I looked at this child who couldn’t be more than 12 but I somehow felt like I could be honest with her. So as if I were in a trance I replied “I think I am lonelier in love than I am without it. Being in love makes me lonely. When you are in love with someone, you are supposed to finally open up. You are supposed to feel safe in your skin for once and reveal secrets you thought you could never tell. You are supposed to let go of yourself and embrace what the other has to offer you. But I cannot do this. I get rigid and more afraid. I don’t feel safe but lonely because when you find yourself unable of all this, you realize love is not a redemption but a damnation and you are doomed to it. Love shouldn’t feel like a trap but that’s how I have always felt. Being in love has always felt like looking at your wings and forgetting what they are made for. “

I looked at her hoping to find her puzzled. She wasn’t.

“Maybe you haven’t found the right person yet” she said sounding like she had also read one of the books that tells you about your soul mate and how each person has got a person and such bullshits. When she said this, I realized she was a child after all.

“Maybe. Or maybe there is no such thing like the right person. You just have to compromise with what you have got and that’s how you get a love story. And maybe I am failing because I am such an intolerant selfish bitch.” This is what I thought I would say but instead I replied with a “maybe. That is it “because somewhere I too wanted to believe that there will be a time, there will be a person one day with whom love would feel like everything it’s supposed to.
“My grandma says to love is to live. And even if it fails sometimes, you shouldn’t lose hope because life is precious and giving up on love is giving up on hope. Hope is the most beautiful thing. YOLO, sister. Keep fighting” She spoke again once more making me question and compare her age with her level of maturity.

As her stop had arrived and she got up to go, I looked at her for one last time. I compared her brown smooth hair to my dark locks, her sun kissed skin to my freckled brown skin, her carefully ironed floral skirt to my ragged baggy jeans, the twinkle in her eyes to my vacant ones. We contradicted on every terms but when I looked at her, I saw hope. And she was right, hope is beautiful and maybe that was what I had been missing all this while.