It's Me, Luke

Jane Doe

reminder:

pardon this shitty short story. this is a product of the feared writer's block. really.

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04 January 12

Wednesday

Dear Jane Doe,

It's me, Luke.

I know you don't know me, but that's okay, because the fact of the matter is, I don't know you either.

But the unfamiliarity aside, I'm going to tell you a stort.

It was a rainy Wednesday, at six in the noon. New York was having a heavy downpour; the big drops of rain were harshly hitting the stone ground. The road was busy - hundreds of cars were blowing their horns, and people who were in a state of rush hopped around and across the road with umbrellas in their hands and phones stuck to their ears.

New York was always busy, but that day, it was worse.

Inside the bus, where I had been sitting for more than an hour already, it was very chilly. It must have been the reckless air conditioning, or maybe the fact that it was raining. Both, of course. That moment I was regretting that I hadn't brought my jacket with me, because if there was any day I desperately needed it, it was this day.

But as if I haven't had enough of the cold, a girl presumably around my age rushed inside the bus and found her way to my seat.

She gave me a slight smile, her eyes wandering from the seat to my left and then to me. I smiled back and nodded, non-verbally saying that it's totally fine, so she sat.

I hadn't known for years that girls who needed permission to sit beside someone in a public bus actually exist.

By the time she had comfortably sat, the girl shoved her dripping wet umbrella into her purse, mumbling a foul word. My eyebrows jumped - the swear word seemed so normal coming from her mouth.

And at this moment, I came in.

"D-do you hate t-the rain?"

That was me. The lame, stuttering seventeen year old.

The girl turned to me, a confused smile on her face. "Who doesn't, right?"

Her voice was like my 7th year birthday cake, and my cake was really sweet.

Honestly, I love the rain. Its sound, smell, the gray skies - everything about it. Every time it rains, there's always something good that happens to me. But I didn't want to contradict, for the girl really seemed so pissed off at the moment. So instead, I just nodded, and returned to look through the window and on the packed road.

But I couldn't help it. I had to look at her.

She had those green eyes amplified by a thick layer of mascara, an ash blonde hair that was tied up high on a ponytail, and skin that was as pale as the skies above me.

And then she turned to me. I blushed, she had caught me eyeing her up.

Well. Shit.

"I mean," she spoke casually, causing the tension to ease in me.

Good thing she hadn't flipped off and slapped me square on the face, like most girls do when they catch sight of people checking them out. Because if that happened, damn I might as well would wish to be literally damned.

"I hate the rain because since I haven't been blessed with a car yet, I have to walk my way to school every day, and most of the time when it rains in New York, streets get puddles and motorbikes have this special ability to slide past through me and then splash dirty water all over me - that's fucking annoying, right? Excuse my french. But no shit, I hate the rain."

It was funny how she rambled on about her despair over the rain. I found myself staring at her mouth, and noticed how she delivered her words. It was as though she was talking to an old bud, and not some stranger like I was.

She was so natural.

"R-rain is good," I found myself saying, and then I mentally slapped myself. "I m-mean, I like the rain."

"Really?"

"Y-yeah, ha-ha."

I was red. I wished I could explain to her why I did, but I couldn't handle the embarrassment any longer, so I just took my earphones, tucked them in my ears, and sat there in silence, while "Under The Bridge" by Red Hot Chilli Peppers was playing in my MP3.

Time passed by pretty fastly, and the girl who hated the rain had finally come to her stop. She stood up and said goodbye to me with a grin on her face, and I hesitantly smiled, not knowing what else to do/say/think.

I just freaking smiled.

I didn't even get her name.

So I'm going to call her Jane Doe.

Yes, she's you, Jane. You are her.

It's been two hours since our encounter, and I couldn't fight the feeling of feeling something I cannot quite shake. The feeling is like I have to express something, and that I have to tell someone about this... magical encounter. Maybe a friend. But aside from two people, I most likely do not have a friend. Hencefort, I might as well just tell the story to none other than you.

Com-fucking-pletely weird, I know.

But this is better than nothing, Jane.

And that's how the story ends.

Oh, wait. No. This might be the end of the page, but definitely not the end of their story.

Because I tell you, I will keep on writing about it.

Love,

Luke

Author's Note :

this is a short story, ok? it's gonna be having 11-20 short chapters. and since it's just a short one, i'm pretty sure my update schedule wouldn't be so bad. I hope u guys give it a chance.

the cover of this story is made by ArtiePants. go check the lady out! ;)