I thought on these, on the things I was drawn to in people, out of the infinite possibilities. And slowly, without realising I was developing it, I found that I had a type; and the realisation hit me without preemptive warning. A slap in the face, a punch in the gut, the hollow feeling of falling. Because time and time again, it turned out they were all reflections of you. Without knowing it, I was falling for the bits of you I recognised in other people. Two years and a hundred people, and the only person I can think about is you. Inside a crowded imagination, everyone else is just a figment.