There was a pair of light, transparent blue eyes.

They were almost like cat eyes, when you looked into them they glowed and you could see through them.

Then there was hair: long, dark brown, almost black that was a mass of curly waves down her back.

Then there were the cheekbones.

They were like razors, so prominent and high, like the elite.

A tiny nose sat in the middle of her face.

It was like a button that was almost flat.

There stood a young looking girl who had a dusting of freckles over her cheeks and nose.

Her lips were an unusual color, bright pale pink, not red like most other pairs.

The need for lipstick was lost on her because it was like she had permanent lipstick on.

With one slow blink of the eye you could see eyelashes that were like sticks that had been dipped in black paint and were protruding out of a tree.

The black lashes matched the black pupil of the eyes, making that set of blue eyes pop.

When you first look at her she seems fierce and unfriendly with her model-like face,

but then she smiles and her whole face lights up,

making her look like an angel.

She is thin, but not too thin and doesn't have many curves.

Her style is very classic, almost plain.

Loose sweaters, jeans with boots over them, sneakers, and plain tee shirts are the staple to her wardrobe.

I've never seen her without her large emerald green bag.

In it contains her Kohl's wallet, knock-off Chanel sunglasses, her work ID and ID chain, her house and car keys, a few slices of gum, a map of the world, shiny lip gloss and black eyeliner, a few school books, a pen, her cell phone, and a picture of her beautiful two year old daughter.

She had a way about her.

When she walked she sort of glided, with shoulders that were slightly hunched and a serious, determined expression on her face.

She always appeared somewhat preoccupied.

Sometimes you would see her dazing off in class with a wishful look on her face, when she snapped back to reality her expression would quickly change back to a serious one.

It was like she was mad at herself, punishing herself, for daydreaming.

By the end of her last class of the day, she was always on edge, almost nervous.

And then would start her routine of fidgeting: bouncing one knee up and down, eyes shifting to the watch on her left wrist, biting her lower lip, and gently but rapidly scraping her fingertips back and forth across her thigh.

As soon as the class ended she would bound to the door from her seat and race down the stairs to her car.

She was tired and haggard looking for such a young girl, like she had too many worries on her brain.

When upset or confused she would furrow her brow and purse her perfectly pink pout.

You cold tell she didn't spend much time getting ready; she always looked like she had just run out of the house.

But still, she had a look to her, a natural beauty that drew people in.

She never let anyone get too close to her, she would push them away.

You could see the pain in her pale blue cat-like eyes; they were the window into her soul.

Those eyes exposed her, even when she did not want to be exposed.