The heart longs for what the heart longs for.
Surely of all things fickle the heart must be the most fickle—wildly unrestrained, a storm with no master. It denies logic, mocks reason, and pursues what will almost certainly end in pain.
Even then, there is an ephemeral beauty to what the heart desires. Fleeting though it may be—mere moments in its long life of endlessly beating within one's chest—those moments can last forever, echoing long after their passing.
What was this feeling called?
That feeling you're describing is love, but not the tame, neatly defined kind. It is restless, unreasonable, a pull so consuming it borders on self-destruction. The heart chases it knowing the risk, yet still it leaps—because in those fleeting instants of connection, the world itself feels eternal.
This was what her heart was asking, and the response came from her brain.
There was folly in her thoughts… and a childlike naïveté she was not supposed to allow.
