Gravity

The gravity on earth is 9.8 metres per second squared. It's a force that attracts all objects to the ground or to each other. What goes up, gravity will always bring down. What you take, gravity will always take back. And when you fall, gravity will always pull you in. Gravity is one of the most complex concepts in physics. It can be a saviour, but it can also be a devil. It hurts you when it pulls you back down to the ground to hit the hard rock beneath you. It hurts when it pulls something you love away from you. It hurts when it takes you in, engulfing you in eternal darkness.

Gravity is cruel. Gravity is heartless. Gravity is ruthless.

But gravity is law.

He first notices her sitting under the cherry blossom tree overlooking the lake, leaning against its light-brown trunk while the branches, its pink leaves in abundance, shade her from the sun, as he makes his way home from school. Her brow furrows as she furiously writes into a book set on her lap. He wonders why she bothers, what she'll gain from writing under a tree- it won't help her with her future or getting a job when the time comes.

He decides not to judge, that maybe it's a one-off thing and walks past her. He begins to question what she does with her time, though, when he sees her in the same spot, in the same motion of writing for the next week as though she never really left.

The first time he makes himself known is exactly two weeks after he first spots her. The rain that started during his physics class pelts around him as he makes his way past the lake, like sharp arrows trying to pierce the fabric of his umbrella. He finds her still sitting under the tree, oblivious to the rain falling around her, putting pen to paper. Feeling a slight pang of sympathy for her, he makes his way towards her and hooks the umbrella onto a thin branch so it covers her without either of them having to hold it. He looks down to find her staring up at him and the umbrella, having realised the lack of droplets soaking her clothes and hair.

He assures her it won't fall seeing the concerned look on her face and a smile slips onto his features as he thinks about the physics, gravity and all, behind it. He considers explaining it to her but decides against it after coming to the conclusion that she probably won't understand and instead tells her she can keep the umbrella. She mumbles a thank you, barely audible in the loud ruckus of the rain and returns her focus back to writing. He reaches home just as drenched as she, his brown hair shining with droplets and his skin cold as ice.

It rains for the rest of the week and each day he sees her sitting under his umbrella, still hooked to the tree.

The next time he speaks to her, it's a warm day and his umbrella, he notes with a smile, is still fastened onto the branch. She looks up to meet his eyes as he passes and she beckons him over with a wave of a hand. He meanders over and, following her instruction, leans against the tree beside her. She hands him a small netted bag of cookies, its mouth neatly closed by a white ribbon as a gift for the umbrella.

He takes it with much gratitude and introduces himself, for it is the only thing that seems proper. She's quick to smile back and tucks a dark brown strand of stray hair behind her ear to join the rest of the soft curls that cascade down her back as she returns the introduction.

He thinks Sapphira a suitable name, for he finds it impossible to deny that, with her olive skin, dark brown eyes and glossy hair decorated with a white ribbon that she appears to never take off, she could be nothing but the brightest star in the sky, far more beautiful than the gem itself. He's sure to tell her that and the shy smile he receives from her is enough to tell him that he's one of the first, if not the first, to compliment her, perhaps even talk to her.