𝟸 & 𝟺

-four-

I didn't realize answers came in simple packages.

Packages in which were evidently and conveniently plopped down in front of you, asking you to open them.

Give them a chance at being the one for you.

The packages have your name draped along the mailing stickers and the packing tape. Each letter boldly written.

The feeling of receiving an answer from out of nowhere was like the feeling you get when comparing instances of such nature to being from God.

The make of this one...had some sort of pivotal attachment.

The fact that this was in no way a clone...nor a replacement.

No one could ever replace Daichi. I wouldn't let them.

The reason being this had to have been planned, perhaps discussed as to how it would unfold.

Daichi knew he wouldn't be able to partner with me. He deliberately made sure of that.

He just needed a cover as to when I figured it out. Who knew it would be this soon mind you.

The package itself, was an interesting one.

Not strange; it was entirely or somewhat inevitable, and realistic.

He wasn't flamboyant, chaotic or even impulsive like the rest of the bunch.

He was merely a non-obvious version of a black sheep in the crowd of white walking clouds.

Or really...the gray sheep.

***

The sudden thought and fruition of the previous events unfolded in your mind as you readied for a calm and non-eventful Saturday.

The crashing and shots of raindrops on the windows caught your attention as the feeling and overall sense of reality felt a bit more soothing with the sounds of nature infront of you.

The gray skies met with the rain and misty like aura made for what felt like a very peaceful and beautiful morning.

The sun didn't need to beat on you all the time to signify a good day, pleasant afternoon or blissful evening.

The pretentiousness you found from the sun was rather disturbing, considering it was as if it needed to be the center of the word all the time.

Then again, all planets orbited the sun. It was already the center.

It was just needing some one else to feel the same.

You walked down the stairs into the kitchen with a notebook in hand. On days like this, you enjoyed experimenting with the little art of poetry.

The writing and creativity struck you as a unique sense of coping.

Mainly because there was no other way to describe the emotions and feelings in which you experienced.

At least not to a degree people could understand. It has always been that way.

You sat at the kitchen island, opened your notebook and slowly flipped through pages of poems and writings, each with its own story.