Vol. II
Inspired by—
The Neighborhood, Daddy Issues.

THERE IS AN ART TO MAKING AN EYE-CONTACT. It's spontaneous, like bursting sparks of confetti, at first, but then it becomes addictive—an intoxicating spell that drives strangers to meet once more and more until there is nothing left. It's peculiar, really, because strangers are like a pandora box, so very mysterious and hidden, and yet, with a mere glimpse, it's as if the box has been unlocked—completely and irresistibly, revealing sprouting edelweiss that doesn't belong against the blossoming atmosphere.

Harriet Roseli is seated on the very far end of the busy New York subway, red lipstick smeared all around the burnt cigarette butt and cropped hair disheveled as if she'd fallen into a hole of unwanted forests. Indeed, her life hasn't been the easiest one, but did that ever make her grow stronger than what she seems to be? She still finds it difficult to answer.

Having been a runaway at the ripe age of eighteen from abusive parents to having no roof overhead, Harriet has seen all the ugly sides of the world—the dirty rats, people's gazes of mockery, and... and the rain. So very aggravating and lost. Truthfully, the emerald-eyed girl had never liked the rain. She thought of it as a pathetic cry of the universe, obvious grief, and everything she believes unfitting for such a fucked-up world. It's thunderous at times, but in moments where it's not, it's eerily quiet, subtle, and soft. Certainly to her, rain is an anomalous phenomenon because unlike it, Harriet Roseli never cries, she can't, she shouldn't, at least. And right now, the air is crying, pounding against the roof of the train, drumming and drumming against the frigid glass behind her. Hard and merciless.

"Young girl"—a wrinkly woman with canes caught her attention—"can I sit, please? I'm afraid my legs are hurting more today and I can't find any other vacant seat to take."

Harriet eyeballs the old woman up and down, studying her whitened hair, slouched posture, and pursed lips. Strangely, the woman resembles her own mother and Harriet—she can't help but shudder anxiously at the thought of getting hit, insulted, and belittled ever so harshly. "S-sorry, ma'am"—Harriet puffs a smoke—"perhaps try somewhere else, yeah?"

The old woman sneers and struts away warily as Harriet hears her mutter, "Jesus, what has this generation become."

Harriet Roseli heaves a weighted sigh. Not by guilt though, but by... she doesn't quite know what yet.

The old woman trudges through the moving train unsteadily until a boy offers her his seat. With black curly hair that drapes onto his shoulders, irises of twinkling hazels, and cheeks that are peppered with iridescent freckles, it occurs to her how incredibly attractive he is. She stares at him. Amidst the hustling heads and busy murmurs, she stares at him. Resisted and unbudged. Her gaze wanders down onto his dancing lips, conversing kindly with the old woman; to his fingertips, creating traces of mist as they rest against the glass window; to his feet, adorned with white sneakers that are embellished with splotches of paint. And to everywhere else that draws her in.

He is everything that she is not. And Harriet Roseli can't help but wonder how something like the soothing moonlight, and she, like flames and spitfire, can ever combine into one. Surely, in this unfair world, it'd be impossible, right?

"As if he'd want a girl like me anyway." She scoffs under her breath. Pathetic.

But then, the frigid atmosphere halts, and the pours lessen. Her eyes meet his, at last.

Like pulling tides glimmering beneath the starlight, her heart pounds a little faster. Something hidden beneath her rib cages lazily flickers, tickling her insides with burgundy roses, honeysuckle, and daffodils—a strange flowery sensation she's never felt before. He smiles softly, and all that floods against her tongues are, Lovely, lovely, lovely. How inexplicable. She doesn't know what it is yet, but it's as if the bustling train suddenly clears—thunder hums against the divine eventide sky and raindrops falling onto the metal roof like diamonds—as the two passersby enter each other's unlocked Pandora boxes.

If only he is not a mere stranger, she would've undressed him as the rain falls atop. She would've painted his tan skin with indescribable warmth from her lips, drawing circles and squiggles until it creates a perfect portrait of the landscape beyond. She would've caressed his cheeks gently, endearingly, connect his ever so wonderful freckles into one bond of a new constellation, and cast a spell of happily ever afters. She, Harriet Roseli, would've done everything to be able to call him hers—to be able to taste, smell, and adore... him.

She puffs out halos of smoke.

It is only a second their eye contact lasts, but to her, it somehow feels like an eternal journey. The train stops, the doors open, and the mysterious boy walks over. Thump, thump, thump, her heart sings in harmony until he drops a folded napkin onto her lap. She grins, he did too. As the girl unfolds it, messily scribbled letters greet her eyes. It reads, "If only you were a bit nicer, I would've asked you to spend some time with me as the rain falls above."

From the etched words, Harriet Roseli can't help but sneer. She presses the end of her burnt cigarette against its rough surface offendedly, creating fire, fire, and fire, and mumbles under her breath, "Huh, we really do live in two different kinds of world."

The train begins to move once again and the tan-skinned boy disappears. What was his name? Her bitter lips itches to know.

⋆ ❂ ⋆

This short story is inspired specifically by my current favorite song. Please let me know what you guys think, thanks!

Words: 980