left eye high || lh *rewriting in the future*

01. Coffee

My chest was tight and my lungs ached.

Every intake of breath stung, and the rest of my cold body didn't soothe or lessen the sensation. The pavement seemed harder in the winter, putting more stress on the already sore muscles of my legs. My long-sleeved shirt fit awkwardly and stuck to the cold sweat on my back in what felt like a crooked position.

Everything about running outside in December was awful. The Christmas lights that sloppily lined the roofs of each house seemed to emphasize the dull gray color of the clouds rather than brighten the atmosphere. The snow piled up to reach about the height of my waist and stuck too far out into the road, overall seeming to radiate the cold. And everything was drained of color. Dreary, tired.

There was nothing I hated more than running like this, but every day I still get up and force myself into it. It certainly doesn't improve my attitude towards this town.

I could see my breath as I let out a sigh at sight of the lamp post. Halfway done.

If a stranger was outside in this god awful weather in this god awful town and happened to see me running, they'd probably think I was perfect. I'm not a conceded person, not in the least, but I wouldn't deny that. My ashy brown hair holds loose waves and falls down to my thin waist even in a ponytail. I have skin that keeps a slight tan, even through the colorless winter months, and is almost flawless apart from occasional freckles and a few reoccurring bruises from soccer - which thankfully did leave me with a near perfect body. That along with the constant exercise and dieting.

But at second glance I'm far from perfect.

Starting just above my left eyebrow, a long scar trails down the side of my face and stops a few centimeters before the left corner of my lip. It's been healed for years but left a white, slightly raised, reminder. A reminder that's reflected in every mirror and every lingering stare, making everything inescapable. Impossible to forget. Creams and doctor remedies were next to hopeless and I had to talk my mother out of wasting any more money on the damned thing. She has enough on her plate.

After about 20 more minutes of running past the snowy mailboxes and somewhat unshoveled driveways, I got back home. The slush that filled the space uncovered by snow soaked through my shoes and socks and I was desperate for warmth. I nearly sprinted up the porch stairs and through the front door. Not stopping yet to take off my freezing shoes, I continued to rush straight upstairs to my room. I'd always rush through the kitchen, the first room in our house through the front door, despite the soreness threatening the strength of my legs. I was just never in the mood to talk to my parents.

I went through my normal Sunday routine to get ready for work - a small coffee shop at the far end of town where I could avoid seeing people I knew. I didn't mind it there. Everything in this town was old enough to be worn out, but not old enough to be retro or interesting. The shop was only a few years old, so it was sort of a refreshing change of scenery.

For a long time now I'd given up on trying to cover my scar, so getting ready went by fairly quickly. I had to dry my hair, just so I wouldn't develop pneumonia in the time it took outside from the door to my car and from my car into the shop. The temperature was probably already below zero. And lastly I put on a couple coats of mascara so that my face wasn't completely bare. I counted on my eyes to avert at least a bit of attention away from my scar.

After putting on my uniform, jeans and the dark red polo, I rushed back outside. I tried to avoid filling my sneakers with snow when walking out to my car, but of course was unsuccessful. I grimaced in annoyance while I checked my phone and started the engine.

*1 new message from: Cal*

Probably wasn't important, just saying he missed me or wishing me a good day at work. I turned the radio up to my usual volume, too loud, and put my phone down to drive.

It was a slow Sunday at the shop, some of our regulars came in, etc. Our guests were pretty much all regulars.

It was nearing 5 o'clock and it became even slower, per usual. My elbows were on the counter, propping my head up as I read The Sun Also Rises. My boss never minded my reading or doing homework when work was slow; I kept everything clean so there wasn't much else to do.

The bell on the door suddenly rang and I looked up to see an unfamiliar customer. It's been months since I've seen a new face in here, especially one like his. He wore tight, black jeans, all black Chuck Taylors, and a leather jacket over a Pink Floyd tee. His blonde hair was messily pulled back into a red snapback and a shiny black ring curled around his lip. He looked up at me and I almost shivered at the aberrant blue of his eyes.

Without looking at the menu he walked up to the counter. I closed my book.

"Nice face." he chuckled.