Rewritten.

"When I saw you, I fell in love. And you smiled because you knew."

I still remember the moment I first crossed paths with you: you were walking down the steps of a crowded hall room, majestic as you were, as I sat bashfully among the jitters of the room's society.

Here, you did not know me, and though your focus was elsewhere, mine was on you, transfixed on the oddity of the silver streak you boasted against the raven of your hair.

It was not soon after, when we met officially. It wasn't in the most romantic of places - it wasn't at a line in a coffee shop, or in an elevator - and you definitely did not ask me about the Smiths.

Although the mood steered far from that of a Nicholas Sparks novel, meeting you was evident. The room was cold, and silent. I can still recall the smell of old cigarettes.

But somehow, to me, our hello's seemed different. Almost as if they were written in scripts, and we spoke them like skilled actors with lines, memorized for a french film.

To talk to you brought me no challenge, and to laugh with you was simpler than anything I'd known. Our conversations were liquid. It was as if I was swimming underwater: your voice was the wave, and I was a lost ripple, floating beneath the buoyancy of your currents.

It didn't take long at all for me to realize that you, though foreign as you may have been to my meeting eye - to me, you were no stranger.

Was it love at first sight?

Perhaps.

Because I believe we've met before - somewhere in a dream I can only faintly remember. It was a quiet dream: desolate and somber. I imagine there might have been a light drizzle, and a swarming fog in the cold. We were both waiting on something we weren't sure was even coming.

But whoever you were to me at the time, you wouldn't leave my mind. I was urged to write about you as I awoke.

The words of my anonymous letter is still stale on the back of my tongue. For you see, we writers do that, you know: write about the things we are truly passionate of - of the things we love.

And in the same way I wrote about you then, here, I am writing about you now.

Because I think I must love you.