A/N: this is the thing that inspired this.
"Your OTP keeps running into each other in strange and frequent ways: elevators, train rides, coffee shops. They continually keep crossing paths, but only know each other as "that coincidental person they keep seeing everywhere they go". Until one person in your OTP breaks the silence and asks the other person their name/a question/makes small talk."
I made the thing. And now a friend is insisting I do more things, since we did speculate what happened next.
I don't know yet. So have it as a standalone.
The last day they met before they met was in a subway train.
The first day before they met was in a dance showcase.
She was a ballet dancer. She danced breakdance.
They saw each other backstage. Both disregarded the other's form of art. Stupid, tall snob with her short hair and no booty, the breakdancer thought. Mundane, vulgar dancer with that wild brown mane and that attitude, the other thought.
They didn't speak, they just exchanged a few glances, a little condescending, as two radical minds are prone to do. One of them thought the other had a stick up her rear. The other thought the one probably was a floozy, drinking every night, undeserving of her holy attention.
Destiny has strange ways, though.
The second time they saw each other was in the subway. They took the same line, they got off at the same stop. You're the floozy who did that… unrefined dance at the dance festival, the tall blonde with short hair thought, observing the probably latino woman and her wild, brown, wavy hair. You're the stuck up ballet prima whatever who did her fantasy twirls at the dance festival, the latina thought, observing the pale form sitting across her in the subway.
Their dance studios were right across the street. When you walked in the space between the ballet group and the urban dance clique, you could almost feel the electricity. The looked at each other with disbelief as each entered their respective studio.
The next time they met, they were at a coffee shop. They ordered the same thing, a latte. The exact same medium size latte sprinkled with cinnamon. Static clicked as each grabbed their cup, unexpectedly learning each other's names. The blonde didn't know why she took note of the Amatista, but somehow it got in the back of her head.
They met unintentionally, casually, frequently, exchanging glances, sometimes blushing, because why do I keep meeting with this person?, it's so embarrassing!, I don't even want to see her again!,…
So many times, they sat across the tables, looking at each other as each slurped their latte, and they argued with their eyes, the blonde wondering why "Amatista" dressed always with those sports bras that stuck to her generous breasts— And oh shit, no, how could she ever find her thick form, her outfit choices good looking? That obnoxious, tacky tattoo of a gemstone just above her breasts? It was gross. And the latina wondered why she was always dressing like she was going to a fancy party, with those chromophobic pastel outfits and why she always had to wear pearl jewelry, if she was young and pearls were for old ladies,…
And the worst part was, they kept meeting. Their groups had the same agency to sponsor them for events and presentation, and that one time they found each other stuck in an elevator in the agency building, and oh no, it got stuck for five minutes, and the strangers tried to ignore each other's heavy presence.
They met at the train. They discovered they lived on opposite corners of the same street later. They found each other at the same clothing section of the department shop, in opposite ends, meeting when it was time to pay and they were one behind the other, attended by the same cashier.
And the worst part was the latina admired the short, spiked hair, the slender, fit form, the way the muscles of her legs were wrapped by stockings. The worst part was the blonde admired the firm muscles on her arms, the full, curvy figure, fit if plump.
"Help, she's chasing me," the blond cried to Rose, her mentor when she moved to this foreign city, "I'm sure she's really following me, she's everywhere, I just know her name, but every time I go out I meet her, and she's good looking, what do I do?"
"Help, she's chasing me," the latina cried to her strangely named, dark-skinned, afro-endowed dancing partner, Garnet. "I see her everywhere, and every time she looks at me like I'm a puta, and she's even pretty, and I'm tired she's everywhere since the dance festival…"
…It all happened in a subway train.
They almost always sat across, or maybe one was standing, gripping the nasty metal pole, while the other sat, both observant, alarmed, like a cat in the face of danger.
But this time, fate made them sit next to each other.
And they both swallowed. They both avoided glances. They both tried to place more inches, centimeters, millimeters between them, anything to forget the presence of the stupid stranger that kept popping everywhere,…
It was the latina that decided she wasn't standing this anymore.
She tried to phrase it in a proper way, thinking of the vague strands of information she had somehow hoarded and gathered from the tall woman with the fresh perfume sitting besides her. She noticed her slender hands as her mind machinated, as words were written and rewritten and she pushed aside the natural awkwardness of first words.
And the sentence that began a six year long relationship, that eventually flourished into a pompous marriage, with Rose and Garnet as bridesmaids, with a wedding song that blended electronic and classical music, with the adoption of a baby from a government institution three years after the wedding, the word that began a story that was happy enough, that was filled with bumps along the way that were eventually survived, the sentence that initiated a love story to be forever remembered, was this.
"Are you following me?"