The Secrets to New York

Two | Paper Planes

I still remember how we met. It was September 25.

I was sitting on a bench in the park; the leaves had just begun to fall and the cold breeze was nipping at my face, which I had buried inside a book that I had read a hundred times. I could never seem to stop rereading it, because I had grown too emotionally connected with the characters. (You always thought that it was the most normal thing in the world; I thought I was a freak). I could hear the laughter of the children who were swinging on their swings up in the breezy fall afternoon, all cozy in their warm boots and comfy sweaters. Their mothers would sit on the benches and talk with each other as if they had been friends for a long time. I always wondered what that would be like, to have a friend; someone that I could call at any time, just to talk.

I had just finished reading the saddest part of my book when I heard something behind me.(It sounded like a muffled hey, watch out but I never really found out for sure). The next thing I knew I was hit in the back of my head by a tiny, folded up paper airplane. It came out of nowhere, the way that shooting stars usually do, falling into the view of the person who needed it the most.

I turned around quickly, too stunned to think straight, as I held up the little paper plane to examine it. And there you were, in all your glory. Your dark hair was disheveled and your brown eyes were wide with something that I couldn’t quite identify.

Sorry your voice sounded forced, and there was that sparkle in your eye that told me you weren’t really all that sorry. I’m Beckett.

Emery. I replied. I tried my best to fight back the nerves that were growing in my stomach, but you and I both know how well that turned out.

But that was what drew me to you; you didn’t care that I had totally just choked on my own name, you just came and sat down anyway.