“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.
