It's written on the wind.

Whenever I get gloomy about the state of the world, I think of the Arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love. What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant? That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me?

Every love story has a different beginning, it’s true. That first inkling that two people are meant for each other. That time will bind them together with threads of emotion and passion. That they will share the joys, the uncertainties, the rollercoaster ride of living a life together.

Some couples come together over many cups of coffee in a college canteen. And to the background score of bunked lectures, irate professors, and annoyingly frequent exams, a love story begins to play.

Other relationships are kindled as best friends realize that the degree of closeness they share cannot be experienced with anyone else. That over the months of hanging out, and talking about everything under the sun, and just being great friends, somehow, they managed to fall in love.

Still others step into the circle when they meet the young woman their parents think so highly of. Who looks even better in real life than she did in her pictures. And isn’t half as silent.

And you can’t blame it on the place, or the season. The attractiveness of her smile, or the sense that this could be the person you would like to grow old with.

There’s no clear, single reason that draws two people together. Brings you closer. Wraps your lives together and shoves it into a brown paper bag.

Or is there?*

*From the Dead Copy Files