❝ So you become their source of oxygen, and they become your source of light and everything in between is water and fire ❞
In which two lost souls that once knew each other find themselves together in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
*...
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─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
❝ You have my focus I can't control it. I find your magic in every moment. No sleight of hand, 'cause you're my truth. And when I'm in love, the ordinary won't just do ❞— Just to see you smile, Why Don't We
🎼
C H A P T E R E I G H T
RUSHING FROM THE PERFORMING ARTS corridor, the hall extending from the other end of the building to the back where the tennis courts and dance class thrive, the Candian steps out. A faint cool droplet hits the boy's nose, traveling down his cheekbone.
He only realizes the silent truth, looking up. He takes in the dark clouds, muttering words of disappointment.
Sprinkles of gentle rain are warm, reminding him of summer, instead of spring, racing down, and he thinks maybe it's not all bad.
When it's May—it's gloomy, with thunder and shallow rain, bugs, flowers blossoming, and birds chirping season.
He should have known by now.
His two best friends like to tease him when in spring, love is in the air!
His mind rewinds to this morning and a smile appears on his face.
New York is incredibly hot, and as much as he loved the sun peeking out early in the mornings, creating a shadow in his bedroom, he found himself lingering in bed, head buried under the white pillow, wishing for the moon to come back.
He wanted to finish dreaming whatever love story he was imagining, or favorably the lyrics to a song he's been dreading to write.
The sunlight streaming through blinds and spreading over the vanilla pudding wall, he must admit, is so pretty.
He wants it to be forever, and evermore.
Kevin, himself was a bit reluctant about majoring in the performing arts department.
His core courses teachers told him it's a starter and he plays the piano with honesty, and genuine emotions. Lately, he hasn't been focused or felt serene sitting at the bench, fingers drifting across the keyboard.
His orchestra teacher recommended finding some sort of inspiration, (as if that's easy.)
Hell, inspiration now is a hundred feet away and out of his reach. He can't even begin to imagine what inspiration must mean to him.
Writing a song can wait.
Enjoy the little moments and push yourself forward, he tells himself.
And he does, khaki pants hugging his legs carrying him towards the locker room despite his thoughts halting when he catches familiar brown eyes.
He shifts his gaze quickly somewhere else, pausing in his tracks as if he did something wrong, or witnessed a horror scene.
