They met on the 6th of April’s afternoon. No, it wasn’t how one would imagine. The sky did not radiate in brilliantness, it was not alive with the faint whispers of bird’s songs, the air was not delicate with the scent of roses. The sky was in fact, heavy with the loom of a dark, grey substance that poured out hurricane-tasting tears, their splatter to the hard pavement the only noise. The boy trudged along without the helpful productivity of an umbrella. Solemn and cold he made his way through the waterfall town, ripples forming tidal waves amongst the puddles. He’d given up quite some time ago on making it home in a rush, his clothes clinging to his lanky body, his feet upon barely enclosed in shoes. But she was there, her fragile body enclosed in the harsh echoing of the wind. There were no words, only thin lined lips and the gesture of her umbrella over both of their heads. The boy ceased his objection. Together they walked, faces reddening, enveloped in the warmth gathered beneath the umbrella and in the confinement of two bodies. Hot breath and quick paces accompanied the discovery they had once known one another in a different time, a different place named simply as “childhood”. But still, no words. They were not needed, not asked for. Justification was desired, but at this time ignored by the boy. In a world full of repetition, he enjoyed the grace of the peculiar and unknown. At the discretion of the girl, they came to a stop. A white picket fence tainted with the gloom of the horizon awaited to their left. Glances were torn away and the recognition of home flooded the boy. His chest concaved, his ears a loud, consistent drum beat, veins and arteries tore the skin apart and he felt exposed, naked. Lips parted for words, but they immediately dispersed. Quickly, he turned and scrambled through the gates and up the steps. Head pressed against the door, the dread of regret filled in the spaces of his head. Lips were bitten down upon. Why didn’t I? Why shouldn’t I? What the hell do I do now? What if I don’t? What if I do? What will she think? Why the hell are you still standing here? The boy spun around and stumbled all the way back to the picket fence. Frantic searches and then there, there she was at the end of the street. Red coat, blonde hair gathered in the frost of the air. “Thank you!” The girl stopped. A million nerves attacked and pinched at the boy, but she turned around. Through the rain, there was a smile, a smile warm enough for the world to remove itself from the sun to solely revolve around her. She turned and sailed gracefully away. But the boy stayed and watched on, because that was enough; that was all that was needed. For she was the sun and he was the earth. On the eve of September 12th, they fell in love. Somewhere in a small coffee shop assembled east of civilization, the boy and the girl sat. This time, there were words. The boy’s hands gripped tightly around his coffee, he listened as she spoke. He engulfed himself not only in the words she spoke, but the syllables, the way her s’s curved through the air a little longer than they should, the way they left her delicate lips and floated through the dense air like leaves carried away by the wind. The boy watched as she pushed aside a strand of curls from her face, to reveal a tiny drop of sweat trickle down the side of her forehead. Once again, they walked together with warm faces, the girl’s arms intertwined with his. The boy could feel her hot cheek against his shoulder. He felt himself burning. A loud, intense ticking inserted itself within the confinements of his skull. His palms trickled with the secrets of the sea. At the discretion of the boy, they came to a stop. The girl turned, almond eyes curious and alight. Her mouth opened to form words, but he enclosed her lips with his. Words were not needed, not asked for. The night air gathered around them, a compression that formed comfort. It dared them to not remove themselves, to stay within this moment for all of eternity, for what could be any greater than this? Chests expanded, thought processes discarded to the open air. The boy would remain in this moment for always, she was the very essence of cheap perfume and coffee breath and he was completely absorbed. She died on the 15th of March. No, it wasn’t how one would imagine. The sky did not appear dead, although it was. To the boy, it would always appear dead. Objects draped in black gathered in a hall. “We are here to celebrate her life,” they said. The boy was called up to the stage. He watched the objects in front of him. His eyes burned with an intense itch he refused to scratch. Their faces were blurred and discrete. He was searching, he would always be searching. They waited in anticipation, they waited without comfort for his words, but of course, there were none. In a world full of repetition, a world of life and death, the boy would not speak a single word. Frozen and ill, he stared out and over the substance and matter gathered before him. The boy was empty . What is a world without its sun? There is a car and it is speeding. It crashes. And the sun is gone. A year later. The boy is still ill, but he is no longer frozen. He gathers in front of stage upon stage to speak words. He speaks words of his love for the girl, he speaks words of April 6th, September 12th and March 15th, he speaks words of loss and hurt. He speaks of the desire to continue but not forget. At the discretion of both the sun and the earth, words become valuable. The girl was once there, and she once existed. That was enough for the boy.

