Our Little Cherry Blossoms

one. meeting

ＡＵＧＵＳＴ (( ＬＡＲＫ ))

I wondered how the back gate would age, with its peeling black paint and raw metal beneath. My feet carried me towards the inky, despondent little gate, raising my calloused fingers up to press against the cool grey switch that would release the gate from its electric magnet. How melancholic would this gateway look in June? After the trees blossom and grow dull, after the many sullied hands shoving against its fragile frame, will it still stand tall? Clasping my pale fingers around the handle, I pulled gently and felt it glide along with my frail arm, wishing I had the taut, bolstered limbs that so invariably belonged to Helen. Of course it was a result of the vigorous gymnastics training she attended. The clamorous voices of young, teenage boys struck my sharp ears like an insect who took a wrong turn. I flinched, pausing for a moment's hesitation before stepping backwards calmly, bringing the gate with me as I patiently waited for them to pass. These boys knew me as the girl who ignored everyone except my tightly packed band of friends. My gaze was void as I stared into the distance, vaguely aware of them sauntering past me.

"Thanks Lark!"

They thanked me in a sing-song tone together, only to receive a stiff nod from me. A sonorous laugh came in reply, deep and vibrant. Their voices were always full of jubilation and a touch of felicity, never shedding a glare less it be for a joke or some playful banter. It was no surprise that they were so distinguished within our grade as the brazen, sociable bunch along with the more attractive and dainty girls amongst the rest. For the most part, they were kind people who couldn't seem to remember the faces or names of those who didn't stand out. And for some reason they remembered mine. I decided to return the focus to my eyes, pondering the thought of one of them in turbulent sobs over a trivial matter. The situation would be extremely amusing. I watched as the last of them meandered out of the gate, paying no attention to the flaking black paint on the iron fence aside from one, supposedly. His hair was a short, deep, taupe brown that was so dark it was almost black, yet not quite. It was styled upwards, revealing his nearly black eyes which were oddly charming against his tanned skin. Many of the youths in my year found this boy to be very good-looking and 'cute.' For me, this boy's face mattered no more to me than his name. All I knew him for was that he's the boy who sits next to me in english. As he stripped off a thin fragment of paint from the frame, I caught his fathomless gaze and he smiled at me, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Thank you."

His voice was rough and gentle, like that of unpolished bronze. Not waiting for me to reply, he walked away, twisting the piece of paint between his fingers while he crossed the small street to catch up with the rest of his friends. I found myself following their footsteps with my gaze. I knew they were going to the outdoor foodcourt that was just around the corner, the foodcourt where most of the students at my school went to eat once classes were finished for the day. My eyes trailed after their figures, or rather his figure, until they disappeared from sight. I realised that I could feel the blood being pumped into my fingers and the firm but rapid beating of my heart in my chest. This is normal, I thought. For some reason I was always nervous around that boy, however much he annoyed me, which he did. Painfully so. I drifted slowly away from the gate to the bus station where I had to catch number 72, trying to recall what the boy's name was. Case. I remembered with a start, Case Delgado.