A/N: Inspired in large part by Lillian Townsend's "A flurry of hope," and also in part by the novel "The History of Love."
Disclaimer: Not mine.
There once was a girl that was born in the rain. The cruelest of tragedies.
There once was a girl that was born in rain that she would never get to touch. Rain that soaked into the floorboards of the porch and into the frames of the windowsills. Rain that grabbed the light and tried to keep it for itself but failed, and the light fled from the drops in tiny pieces, suggesting of itself that anything is made of light, light is every color, that every surface it touches is everything.
There once was a girl that hid in her own home. Her home was the land and the home of her family. They whispered. Maybe water didn't kill the girl. Maybe it made her disappear. A hint of clouds and the girl was gone, and it was learned to never look, for they'd never have found her, aloft in a tree that somehow kept out the rain, a tree over the water, great armies of rain pounding across the lake, swarming like a million insects, fighting the landing, falling and twirling, fighting the moment that it hit the surface and could no longer be. No longer able to ride the wind, catch the light, catch the small captivated eyes of a green girl. It could no longer rumble its disapproval to her for the world, whistling past, crashing twenty yards below her feet.
There once was a girl that moved away from the land, the land that was her home, but never ceased to miss it. And the girl found something new, a huge flurry of flakes, white chips of ice that didn't catch the sun, didn't cry its agony, but fell softly, steaming the glass and chilling the dorms to the point of aching wet misery.
There once was a girl that sat at her window and smudged a handprint into the cool pane, wondering what would happen if her fingers slipped through, and if her skin would turn icy white like the flakes that she would never long to touch.
There once was a girl that sat on a cobblestone porch, holding a child that would touch the rain, would capture it in his hair and carry it in his boots. The girl gazed at the rain and felt nothing, no longing, no bitterness, no regret. Only jealousy for the sky, to patter its disapproval for the world and cry itself to sleep.