TO THE GIRL WHO NEVER STAYED.
Today, I met Indiana.
She has the longest hair I have ever seen. I still could not come into terms that someone grew her hair longer than Holiday. Her hair was as curled as the instant noodles I buy in convenience stores and its color resembled the darkest hue of red.
I was perplexed when I first saw her sitting by the window inside a coffee shop. Her brows creased as she focused solely on the book she had in both of her hands. It was a delightful sight to watch, but it ended too soon when she snapped her gaze towards me, and gave me the most chilling glare.
And of course being the Leo that I am, I loosened my tie and went inside the coffee shop. I was nervous, but I am not a coward.
I almost groaned when the scent of coffee reached my nostrils. Haven't I mentioned that I am extremely allergic to coffee?
I mean, I tried drinking once in college and I ended up on a hospital bed. Can life get anymore stupid than it already is?
I sat two tables away from her and observed.
And for thirty minutes of staring at her, these are the things I have taken note of:
1 Before she drinks her steaming hot coffee, she would take a deep breath, close her eyes and her lips would stretch into a smile.
2 She had her earphones plugged, and whenever she seemed to get the groove of whatever music was playing she would bite her lower lip and tap her fingers on the wooden table top.
3 Her mane bounced a little whenever she tapped her foot against the cement. And all of these, she did while looking out of the big picture window.
She just looked adorable, as adorable as Ho- never mind.
Sunshine. Yes, that's the word. Both Indiana and Holiday are.
Holiday is beautiful, but before I could even wander into the depths of her heart, she vanished just like the sunset.
And Indiana? I don't know yet.
But what I do understand is that I have got to get back into this coffee shop and hope that I would see her again.
To Holiday
I can't believe I came up to her and introduced myself. Would have been great if you are here to meet Indiana.
From Leo.
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YOU ARE READING
The Last Stroke
Short StoryEven objects feel hurt. Even objects snap. The only difference is that when they're broken, we throw them away. The Last Stroke is a work in progress. It is a collection, a dumpster of emotions.