She was beautiful, I admitted. Yet her beauty would only be said once by my thought. Her beauty would not found its home at my heart, not even in my sight.

She was the root of mischievousness. I detested her presence that would break the silent I used to cherish before she appeared.

No matter how many times my sight fell in her eyes, I would not let my eyes paralyzed for more than three seconds,

Since there was this possibility, that by the fourth second, I would kill my own sense by saying that maybe she was not a witch..