quartz street ➢ brad simpson [au]

one

// brad //

She was wearing yellow.

I never expected her to wear something so bright; she didn’t appear like someone who wanted attention. She was always trapped in a book, missing out every boy who walked past her with second glances.

Yellow was a bright color, a color that attracts people and wants to be attracting. She wasn’t yellow. She was gray, a color that wanted to blend in and didn’t want to be seen.

I didn’t see her as the type of person who would wear such a drawing color, but there she was, wearing a yellow sundress at the other side of the street, with a new book at hand.

I took a job in the Italian coffee shop at Quartz Street two weeks ago, the same time she started working in the small bookshop right across the street.

Every two fifteen, I go outside the coffee shop for my one-hour break and see her sitting down at the other side of the street. She was always earlier than me. She always had a book in her hands, and it would change every two to three days, and I would always have a cup of coffee in mine.

Quartz Street was invisible to every person who rushed through the city with cellphones on their ears and briefcases getting heavier with each step. It blended in, there wasn’t anything eye-catching, but if you look closely, you’ll finally notice it. And when you enter, you’ll realize how breathtaking Quartz Street truly is.

It was always empty, but it was never lonely. The people who lived and worked at Quartz liked to leave you alone. We’re always there, watching every visitor enter with wide eyes, but we never bugged them to take a look at our own shops. We allowed them to wander on their own. It was an unspoken rule between every employee there.

She was like that. That girl seated across me. She was just like the street we were at.

She was quiet and invisible, but from the two weeks I’ve spent sitting down across her with a cappuccino in one hand, I found out that she was as breathtaking as Quartz.