Rain Clouds

“I bet you’ve got a million stories in that brain of yours,” a deep voice says from beside me, its source looking out into the rain like I was.

It was one of those days where it rained waterfalls but somewhere in the distance you could see the sun stubbornly fighting its way free of the clouds. 

I stare blankly into the curtain of raindrops; the fourth floor’s glass windows giving me the complete view of the city rooftops, all up to the boulevard.

“They’re all sad, at the moment,” I answer, my voice low and measured, “But what does it matter?”I see him give a small smile from the corner of my eyes, he crosses his arms over the black long-sleeved shirt he has on; I fidget with the gray sleeves of my sweater, the sequined blue front of it catching the fluorescent lights. 

He looks at me now, and I wonder what he sees.Does he see the mane of unruly wavy hair that puffs up around my head like an insufferable halo of black, red and brown? Does he see the awkward young woman, the sweater she bought two years ago struggling to hug her shoulders? Does he know I bought the wrong size? Can he see that? Does he see the perfectly lined eyes and painted lips? Does he see the shell that I show the world; all perfect and unbroken in a sweater, skinny jeans and red sneakers? Or does he see more? God, I hope he doesn’t see any more.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and I can tell he’s fighting back a smile by the tone of his voice.

“Does it matter?” I ask back, I’m being bitchy today, and I wonder at myself. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, and what’s in a name, anyway? What’s in my name?

He shrugs, “It doesn’t, really,” then he raises a hand and runs it through unruly brown curls, making it even more of a mess, “but it’s better than ‘girl staring pensively out the window’.”

I have to smile at that. Pensively. Who says that? “I kind of like ‘girl staring pensively out the window’,” I tease, a small smile now forming on my lips, “it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? It’s… unique.”

“I guess,” I still haven’t looked at him directly, I’m afraid he’ll see my eyes are blank and light-less, “so what’s your story, morning glory?”

“Oasis, 1995,” I answer, and this time I look at him, “Do I know you?” I try to place his features, and realize that I do. Same lean frame, same black top on black jeans with black sneakers combo, same dark brown dancing eyes, same smile, shorter haircut.

“I don’t know, do you?” he quirks a brow; same “I will answer your question with another question” attitude.

“Do you know me?” I ask, and I feel a little bit of life creep back into my veins. He must see it in my eyes, because his smile widens.

“I thought I did, once,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “I’m not sure now.”

I laugh, or at least I try to, it just comes out like a sad, sarcastic chuckle, “I thought I did, too.”

“Story?” he requests, his pretty head tilting to the side expectantly.

“I have none you’d be happy to hear,” I tell him as I turn back to the window, the sunshine’s gone now. I guess sometimes you just have to give in to the sadness.

He follows my line of sight, and sighs, “You know it’s not going to keep raining, right?”

“Is it?” I look at him, and his brows furrow in concern. I know he sees the blankness, the absolute void I have allowed myself to be thrown into.

“You used to know that,” he frowns.

“I thought I knew many things,” I shake my head, “Turns out half of them were lies and the others were make believe.”

“You don’t believe that,” he grins knowingly, “You want to, because it’s easier and it will hurt less, but you don’t believe that.”

I scoff, “You know me better than I know myself, then?”

“No, I just know you,” he shoves my shoulder lightly, “Come on, a story.”

“They’re all sad, at the moment, I told you,” I sighed in exasperation.

“So?” he insists, “At least you have a story.”

“There are no stories for you here,” I look at my shoes, ashamed. There are no stories for me here, either.

“Tell me your sad stories,” he says softly. I look up and see he has moved a few steps closer, “We’ll make them happy again.”

“We can’t,” I tell him, tears stinging my eyes, because he’s right. I don’t believe in the darkness and the void. It would have been so easy, to throw it all away, to succumb to it all. But I love too much, feel too much to be able to give up, and it’s the fighting against the sadness that hurts.

“You don’t believe that,” he whispers.He’s right again. So I look into his eyes and see the recognition there. I don’t know how he can tell that the light is seeping back into me amidst the cold weather, but he’s found me again.

“Fine,” I give in, allowing a small sincere smile, “Let’s get some coffee then.”

He laughs at his little victory and loops his arm in mine.

So I start with the stories, and bit by bit, the sunshine starts to filter through the clouds, and the dark winds start to die down… and I slowly stop existing and start living again.

Orange Sunsets

I've always wanted a guy whose favorite color was orange. I think it's because I am so in love with the color purple (obviously), and sunsets. That doesn't make any sense, but let me explain. See, purple and orange only look good in sunsets, and sunsets are my favorite thing in the sky. Because I'm not just saying wispy, light purple and the peach tones of a sunrise; I am talking about the flash of bright, strong orange against the darkening purple sky as the day ends, the majesty of the sun's exit, how it is all bright and dark at the same time, it ushers in the night with such brilliance every day without fail.

Now to have the color orange as a favorite color isn't really a big deal, you know? I just think it would be a nice... well I just think it would be nice. It's one of those little things that don't really matter, but if it was there, it would make you a bit happier, you know? Anyway, so, yeah, the color orange, and sunsets.

I rather do like endings compared to beginnings. I mean, if you start something, it's so much work, you lay down the foundations, you build it up, revise, attach, create, add, continue slowly, oh so slowly, so that you don't mess up. It's the same with sunrises, don't you think? It's slow, and sweet, and light, then it builds up until it's high noon and the sun is blazing above and making you sweat and swear. But with endings, oh, the ENDINGS! Aren't they just marvelous? Every single thing you have done, you have worked for, culminating in a giant blast of color only to suddenly turn black. The drama, the theatricality, the beauty of it all! And you can choose! It's either bright oranges and dark purples, and Pomelo pinks with tinges of bright yellow, or dark blues with ribbons of yellows and oranges fading into the violet sky.

I like endings. I don't know what that says about me, I am pretty sure there's a psychological something or other about this, but I don't really care and I am not inclined to find out. I just like the color purple, and the way it blends so beautifully with the orange at the end of the day, that's all.

Every Speck of Gold

You know those people you meet so randomly, like after months and months of feeling gray and dull, there's suddenly this person who makes you feel alive; or at least the inklings of being alive are in your veins again. But you never noticed this person before. You've passed by this floor a hundred times, passed by that cubicle at least a dozen times more, and you never saw him/her, and all of a sudden, BAM! They're there, and it's different, somehow.

Anyway. So yeah, you've met them, right? An introduction here, a few smiles here and there. Then one day you see them, and your hands suddenly become sweaty, and you're really nervous for some reason. They say "hey," you smile back, maybe even wave, but you ask yourself after if maybe you should have SAID something, maybe you should have struck up a conversation. You dismiss the thought, remembering that, duh, why break the routine? It's not like you actually LIKE  this person, right? But, you see, as soon as you ask yourself that question, you already do.

Slowly, and unknowingly, you begin to anticipate meeting them in the corridors; you start to scan the room to see if they're there; and you start to notice your breaks seem to be in sync; and you start dressing up when you know both of you are going on duty. In short, you start putting in effort. Effort to be noticed, effort to be talked to, effort to be... more of a friend, I guess, it depends.

Then you decide, finally, to talk with them. Only, you don't talk, not... really. You pull up the work chat app, and start a conversation with them. You say hey first, of course, and then scramble for a response when they say hi back. Whatever, you just weren't ready. So you go on. This time it's outside work, you chat, you text, but you never see each other.

You find out they like horror movies, and creepy stories. They like The 1975, and RomComs, they want to travel the entire country, too. You find out they have siblings, and they'd rather stay in than go to the beach. They tell you about their plans, a bit of their dreams, and you realize you're falling in love with an idea of a person. But you're in too deep now, you can't pull yourself out.

By now you have already deduced you only have two options: run with it and hope you don't drown, or cut it out.

You choose the former. Because, hey, what have you to lose, right?

Wrong choice.

Because after months and months of feeling dead inside, you feel alive again, and that person starts to become your drug. You're dependent now, dependent on an idea. But then they don't know that. They don't know you've memorized every single speck of gold in their eyes to keep you warm at night, and you've replayed over and over every single conversation you've typed out. They don't know that the drunk texts weren't really drunk texts. They don't know they're the reason you're up at midnight just to wait for them to say Goodnight back. They don't know your heart will cave into itself when you learn from someone else that they're leaving.

But they'll never know, now, will they? Because how do you tell someone you've fallen in love with the idea of their brown eyes staring deeply into yours? How do you tell someone you've fallen in love with their sarcastic banter and perfect use of grammar and commas?

You don't. You just write it down, and write it down again. Then throw it away, burn it, bury it, hide it, whatever. Then the stories in your head, the ones you've kept because they made you laugh, made you smile, made you breathe, you put them under that rug that you love so much, along with every other story that keeps you fighting through life. You keep it there until it's covered by other stories, other golden flecks from brown eyes, other curls from other people's hair, other scars from different heartaches.

Then on rainy days, you sit by your window with a cup of tea or hot coffee, and you recall that one person who told you they hated travelling in the rain, and it will make you smile. Because their brown eyes are flashing in your mind again, and you recall every single conversation, and for a second, you feel alive again.