"Oh, it's nothing."

Her eyes told a different story.

"If you want to talk, you know where I am."

Her smile was thin, strained. She mouthed a 'thanks' to me, then left.

I stood gazing after her, remembering the bright, bubbly character from last Summer. She'd told me quietly our moment was over, without reason or rhyme. I'd let her go, not man enough to fight; unable, unwilling, to grasp at her free spirit, defy her need to flit as a butterfly from place to place, person to person.

I never saw her again.

And at her funeral, amidst the false joy of people praising her life, I found the hollow space in my soul cried louder than I ever could.