It was almost eight weeks now, almost two months. Five more days to go. Everyday, she never failed to show up at the park at 5 o'clock; and everyday, he never failed to make her smile at his songs. Everyday, she would stand under the same tree next to the small lake, branches now heavy with heart-shaped, green leaves and watch the boy leave first, before going home herself.
She still hadn't gone up to tell him how much she liked his songs, but it was okay. She still didn't know that he preferred tea to coffee, or that he liked mangoes, but it was okay.
He still hadn't seen her yet, but it was okay. He didn't know that she liked to think herself as his guardian angel, standing close to him, but always silent and invisible; and perhaps one day, just maybe, he'll know. She wondered what he would say if he knew. Would he be surprised? Would it be awkward? Or would he smile? She hoped that he would.
He got up and left. She too, left, smiling.
Flowers were blooming.
YOU ARE READING
Spring
Short StoryIn which he sings and plays his guitar everyday without knowing of the lost girl who sits behind a tree, listening to his music.
