As the Sun, So the Moon

Chapter 1

Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.

— Omar N. Bradley —

I had never been graceful; it was simply not in my nature. To be quite honest, I don't know that there was ever a day where I hadn't tripped over myself coming down the stairs, where I hadn't nearly killed myself from slipping and falling on the bathroom floor, stubbed a toe or two against every possible thing in nearly every room in the house... But I suppose it's safe to say I was confident enough in myself to simply laugh at the clumsiness and sanguinely move on through the day.

But the boy had been a different story.

Those freckles had been so mysteriously and wonderfully comforting, punctuating his skin delicately across the entirety of his face; eyes that were an uncommonly dark green, but were still warm in some way, as though someone had taken a summer storm, thick and soupy and treacherous, and boiled it down in a giant melting pot just for him.

But while there was a certain hint of déjà vu to him, there was also an exhilarating breath of freshness. He was the parenthesis around your lips when you smiled too much; the crisp edges of the morning newspaper. The boy had fireflies in those storm-colored eyes.

In short, I suppose he had been exactly as he looked – nothing seemed to bother him, and the laughter lines around his lips proved it.

The eternal optimist.

Yes, the boy was definitely a story.

It just took me three years to figure out whether he was a sad one, or a crazy one.

• • •

I suppose I'm confusing you, right?

An introduction is in order.

Please, by all means, feel free to make yourself comfortable wherever you're at, be it a subway, a couch, a library, or none of the above.

If you want, I'll tell you a story.

• • •

She smelt of powder and sweet licorice. He smelt of old furniture and dusty books. Together, the two of them smelt like Heaven.

Her name had been Rosalie, and everyone had called her Rosa — everyone except that lanky lad with big ears and a grin that seemed to stretch on for miles.

"Rosie!" He'd call to her before class. "Rosy Rosie!"

Her friends, they didn't take to him nicely.

"He's just asking for trouble, Rosa. Where's he from again?"

"I don't know – Palestine? Somewhere in that area. Does it even matter? They're all the same over there."

"He's very queer — he's got this funny little accent and funny little smirk, like he knows something you don't. Stay away from him."

"We're just looking out for you, Rosa. Your parents would go absolutely mad if they knew you were around him."

But, perhaps, the deciding factor had been a sturdily-built boy with a square jaw and golden hair. Frank Pahlke had intervened, forcing his voice to rise several octaves.

"Well, I think he's cute."

But Rosa had been the only one laughing.

During the first few weeks, she had successfully ignored him, sticking to her friends' advice – her nose cautiously held up in the air, her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw might've cracked ­– but when Nahid Hamati sat directly in front of her right before their arithmetic lesson, she'd nearly screamed out of frustration. He would only tease her, kick the front of her desk with his heels, throw paper behind him so it would land on her desk...