A/N: Ideas for this have been knocking around in my head for far too long. This afternoon I was listening to music and drawing when the decision to start writing it finally overwhelmed me. So here you go. Pre-canon Cade.
Los Angeles is quite a bit different than New York, you think, as you settle down on the sturdy bench. Trees shade you, and green grass sways underfoot. Back home, the only greenery within miles was Central Park. Here, there's nice pavilions at private middle schools.
Unfortunately, you still can't find much plant life anywhere else. It's just as much a concrete jungle otherwise. The only difference is it's hotter on the west coast. But the endless city is a comfort, in a way. It's familiar. Some things never change.
Speaking of some things not changing, you can see a small pod of girls across the small park eying you up. Their lips rapidly form words you can't hear, but you know what they are saying anyways. You've heard it a hundred times.
Aren't big cities like LA and New York supposed to celebrate individuality? Instead, girls your age are always ready with a taunt. "What a freak," they say, looking at the colour in your hair, so different from their shades of blonde. Then they look to your clothes; your makeup; your body; skin; personality; existence.
They finally see you looking back. At least they have the decency to look slightly apologetic. You've run into a few similar groups who just kept on with the taunting gossip, only becoming more vicious if you gave them attention.
There's lots of differences like that, too. Your father has a different job, and a different woman on the side. You have a different neighbourhood, a different house, and a different room.
You like your new room better than your old one, at least. It's bigger. And you got to paint it a colour other than white, for once. When you first saw it, you had immediately asked to paint it red. It's your favourite colour, you think, while twirling a strand of hair around your finger. Your mother had cringed, though. "Too bright," she had said. After much convincing, though, she opted to let you at least paint it purple. Or, as she would say, eggplant. It's something, at least. Eggplants don't remind you of hospitals or insane asylums like eggshells do.
"Hi." You look up from the grass towards the source of the voice. Later on, you'd wish you hadn't. Instead, you'd wish you had kept staring at the ground until the girl walked away. But maybe she would've stayed, anyways. Would it have mattered? Could it have possibly changed anything in the long run?
But you look up, and then you see her.
Her hair is the colour of expresso, and her skin a smooth cream. Pink lips curl up into the slightest of smiles. That's all it takes for you to fall, and keep falling. Your lips part a fraction of an inch, your breath leaving you behind in the dust. A second has passed.
She's wearing an oatmeal coloured sweater. You want to graze your palm against it, and see if it's as soft as it looks. With it, she wears a brown a-line skirt. It's cinnamon to her expresso. Beneath the skirt, her legs go on for days. They end in a pair of scuffed black converse.
Something comes over you in that moment, and you want to take her hand and never let go. What a life with her would be like, you couldn't be sure. You have the feeling it would involve a lot of movie nights, and dancing under the stars, and even more songs sung to each other in the bright light of the day.
Two seconds. It's long, but short. A reasonable reaction time, and yet it seemingly held a lifetime's worth of emotion.
"Hello," you greet her back. It sounds smooth to your ears, even as your hands are shaking.
"Are you eating alone?" Instantly, you're reminded of all those girls. The teasing, the hurting. What a loser, they'd all think. No friends. Just some weird transfer student. But you look at her eyes, and you see a strange sort of honesty. She won't hurt you. Never, ever, ever. You don't need to answer her. She knows. The girl smiles. "Can I sit here?"
It tumbles out before you can even think. "Of course." And so she does. There's a good foot between the both of you, because somehow this girl has sensed you need the breathing space, yet also the companionship.
You don't learn her name that day, but it doesn't matter. Your name is Jade West, and you have fallen in love with a girl named Cat.
A/N 2: Let me know what you think.