April
 
   I hear a knock on the window pulling me away from the picture I recently began  to hold dear to me. When I look to the window, I raise an eyebrow at a semi-soaking wet Chris. He makes his fingers point to the driver's seat.  I immediately get to understand the gesture he is trying to make. The door to this tin of a car is stuck. This happens most of the time, and the outpour of rain is not helping at all.

       Chris brought me to the car a few minutes ago, making sure I was comfortable enough. The rain drops started falling when he got inside to get me my crutches lying back on the hospital floor.
Chris right now is in a frenzy, as I have tried to yank the door open at an attempt of two times. My legs are trying to give it their best in supporting as I struggle to do this from the passenger seat behind the driver's seat.
    

       Luckily, the third time is a charm. But again, unluckily Chris is in front of the door just right when I pry it open. He stumbles on his feet, which results in a rough landing. He lands on the floor with his buttocks and gives me an exasperated look. I get a feeling that I have not felt in months. I laugh, a genuine one. His features nearly explode with anger, but I continue.

      Effortless giggles escape my chapped lips. The pain from the stretching of my mouth into a smile is evident. I decide to disregard it, allowing myself this moment. The angry look on Chris's face intensifies. Behind his eyes, the only emotion he is giving away is brewing anger.
             "April!" He scolds.
    "You did that on purpose didn't you?" I am to deep in laughter to answer him.
        "April!"
  

      I finally look to him. He is now completely drenched. I suppress my giggles, my worry taking over. I hope he does not catch a cold. I take my eyes over him, searching for scratches and bruises. The rain does not make my vision clear. I look back to his eyes and find a smile on his face. We have a stare down. My mouth turns up to a grin. And like that we tend to laugh our heads off. It dies down when people around stare at us. Chris makes a hasty retreat to the driver's seat, his one dimpled smile clearing
But, not until he shoots me a loopy grin. I smile back again, my giggles returning.
         "You did that on purpose didn't you?" He repeats again.
      "No!" I deny still laughing.
   "Mmhm."
          "I mean it."
     "And I'm the gingerbread man." He says sarcasm dripping from his tone with a bored look, while he is mocking me.
      "Whatever." I huff, my body not ready for an argument right now.
       "Where is my crutches?" I ask, looking out of the car to find it in the case that he dropped it when he fell.
     "Oh shit, I forgot!" He exclaims. He is soon out of the car going towards the hospital again.
        

       I exhale. Chris is really beating himself up with this. He mostly forgets things. He has autism. But, over the years he has become better. Although he still forgets things when he is worried. He is worried about me.
He worries too much. He holds his dear ones to heart. But thanks to his autistic nature, we became friends. Best friends. My mother works with autistic patients and through this medium is how we met. The scene pours into my mind.
   

     Just back then, when I was on good terms with my mother. I would follow her to her work place every weekends. I started becoming very bored of it, when puberty started setting in. We had already talked about it. She understood and decided to go with my schedule of coming with her on only Saturdays. She was a bit busy that day and made me keep an eye on Chris. Chris back then was a laughing stock. He was cute but did everything wrong.

      When I looked at him that day. I decided in my heart that he was going to be my friend. Best friend. He was perfect, his wrong doings worked it's way to my heart. And that smile. It was perfect. He was perfect. And there was no going back. I gave Chris my all. I loved him with ever my inch of me. He did too.
          I promised myself that I would never hurt him and nobody else would.
                Ever.