I read her well, as if she was a chapter of my old novels lined up on a roof of my small house. She was lovely and hard at the same time and having her was like more of watching famous towers in cities like Paris. You can enjoy looking at her or watching everybody gets close, but you can never have her. She was tall, confident, small in size and I don’t know how she managed to gather all of these features at once. I was never able to maintain a conversation with her; she was a stubborn interlocutor. Loving her is wishing the skies to rain when the surroundings are deserted roads, timeworn memories and cursed people. Rain, like my heart, was never going to fall for hearts like her.