It's been months, almost years, and you still haunt me. What's most frustrating is that you're not even really ideal; I just liked the notion of you being ideal. There were things I didn't like about you--your only-child-induced selfishness, your "holier than thou" intelligence, your distaste for innocent puns and bad jokes.
And yet, so much about you worked. You were smart, careful to speak, not corrupted, fearlessly ambitious, easy going, intuitive, clever, kind-hearted, and--as pathetic as it is--the first person of the opposite sex to chivalrously refuse to allow me to pay for my own food. You had those warm eyes and that soothingly deepened voice, like velvet against the autumn wind. You were the one who encouraged me, kept me going, inspired me, made me strive to better myself. You were the whole reason I decided to finally take the plunge into veterinary medicine in the first place.
You are the reason I am me: why I am filled with the desire to accept and understand anyone whom I cross paths with, why I strive to better myself, why I'm cautiously guarded, why I try not to step on toes, why I think carefully before I speak, and why I tread so lightly. It's true that I didn't know pain until you disappeared, but I also wouldn't know myself had you never come along in the first place. And while you left me with memories I'll never forget nor will ever be able to reproduce, you...you aren't meant to be captured. You never have been, like a meteoroid burning through the clear night sky, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity whose wonder I'll never witness again.