The first time she sees him, she's twelve.
Her hands were twiddling with dials,
Her hair was tied in a messy bun,
Her clothing rumpled and stained with grease.
He walks over, his hands in his pockets,
and asks,
"What are you making?"
She doesn't answer,
Absorbed in the machinery,
But when her shoulder is tapped, she jumps,
and wonders who he is.
"It seems like such a hard thing to do,"
He remarks, standing over her,
Staring into the depths of the old radio.
The second time she sees him, she's fifteen.
She had changed over the three years,
Her hands no longer mess with dials,
and her clothes are clean and unwrinkled.
He's standing in the middle of the hallway,
Staring numbly at the floor as
Bullies push and taunt him.
Not once does she see him flinch at a hit or an insult.
The boys around him eventually move away,
Shouting one last mockery over their shoulders
Before they vanish.
She approaches
but is pushed away.
She doesn't try to talk to him again.
The third time she sees him, she's twenty.
The years have worn upon her,
And she's taller now,
More mature.
Her hands provide comfort to the injured and dying.
Her professors praise her calm hands and demeanor,
And they give her a project,
A partner project,
With him.
They work throughout the days and nights,
Becoming friends.
But when college ends, they split.
She gets into a fight with him,
And screams insults at him.
He walks away,
And doesn't come back.
The fourth and final time she sees him, she's twenty-seven.
She works as a paramedic, saving people,
And she's given an assignment to a burning house.
When she arrives,
She finds the house aflame and a man who needs help.
She tends to his various wounds,
And when they arrive at the hospital,
He's whisked away.
She grows closer to him, the man she saved,
And they date.
Then she realizes she fell in love with him.
Based on my experiences with crushes and people who come in and out of my life.