Blue Rain | Short Story Ver. | ✔️

Part Two | During.

It was in small pieces at first, minuscule to the eye, but I noticed them. In the glance of an eye or the rustle of a pen, I could tell she was watching. It soon evolved to smiles in the hallway, and a casual "what day is it?" She always knew what day it was. Soon we would purposely sit next to each other, boring each other with small talk that we were too embarrassed to acknowledge was actually a play at one another.

Finally, as she sat next to me during lecture that had been going on for far to long she made the first real move in the chess game that was us. Her blue locks were tied up into a lose bun at the top of her head, a large sweatshirt enveloping her. Her chocolate eyes smiling at the birds that sat on a tree outside the window, glittering with snow.

She sighed ever so loudly and leaned over to me and whispered, "This is getting a bit too redundant for my tastes."

"Yeah, he's really boring." I blurted, praying the rest of the class didn't hear. Only a few ended up turning around in their seats.

She chuckled in her seat, keeping her volume low, "Not him, you idiot." She reached into her pencil bag and plucked out a fluorescent blue pen that reflected the glaring of the overhead lights. She grabbed my hand, her finger soft and light as can be, and pressed the pen hard into my skin, causing me to wince. After what felt like hours, she was done, revealing a series of numbers. She set my hand down delicately, her soft hands leaving a silky residue. She grinned, with a joy only found in a blooming sun.

For what seemed like forever, it was bliss. We were isolated, away from the rest of the world when we were together, which was beautiful, yet deadly. That time was full of minuscule smirks, entwined fingers, and late nights at the diner on the outskirts of town. I remember these memories when I find soft strands of blue scattered over my things, the blurred polaroids on my wall that are pumped to the brim with laughter and joy, and the little things she gave me. She told me they were "gifts" to remember her by when she was gone. I cried when she gave me the first one. Hidden glances were our everyday, and midnight smiles were our other halves. Sitting at the café after my shift was done, in the same window. I would watch her scurry away on her sketch pad, sharp graphite streaking across rough paper. Everyday, the sun would begin setting and the strokes of red paint would be smeared across her face, lighting up her face, eyes, her everything. She'd glance up at me, with those illuminating eyes and smile, while jokingly say, "what're you looking at?' I remember how vividly it felt when she let her hand reach out and ruffle my dull brown hair.

That was before. Everything that could've been was before.