By chopin
The birds were flying up high above her head.
And her feet, her tiny feet, they dangled as she sat upon the wooden bench—that bench that was worn with age, cracked in odd places; the ugly one.
Beside her was a book, and as the wind fluttered towards the girl, her book and the bench, it's creamy white pages fluttered and made that wonderful
Rustling sound. How she loved that sound.
And in the girl's hand was a quill, a black quill, the one her father had given to her, and that black quill was in her mouth, though it wasn't a sugar quill—
For she was thinking.
Thinking whilst she dangled her legs whilst sitting on the bench whilst watching the birds fly over her head.
They seemed so small.
So free.
And at this, her pert lips tugged down into a slight frown as she thought of this problem. She couldn't fly. Looking at her arms, her frown widened, because her stupid arms would never be wings, and oh, she could never soar up into the sky like those small, carefree birds, smiling down at the others as they watched her in envy.
Never.
Never was a very long time.
But the quill met the creamy white pages soon, and she was smiling again even as she eyed the birds, the un-caged birds.
I wish I could be like the birds.
I bet they don't have anything to worry about
Because wherever they go,
It'll be beautiful and they'll be able to see the sun and the stars.
And even if it isn't beautiful, they could always flap their wings and
Fly away again.
" What's this?" But a voice cut into her silence. Her moment.
The girl gasped and looked up, and her legs stopped dangling and her quill dropped to the pavement ground as she looked fearfully at the boy that stood above her.
He looked menacing. So tall and gray-eyed and—
Beautiful.
She bit her lip and their eyes locked, brown to gray, gray to brown
And it was a Moment.
One of those moments when you felt one of those odd tingles deep inside, within the depths of your heart and you couldn't explain it but you didn't need to either because it was like instinct.
You just let the moment fill you like air filled your lungs.
" What're you doing out here, little girl?" He asked suddenly, and he sat down on the cracked, old, ugly bench right next to her.
" I was watching the birds." She told him truthfully, for she never lied. The boy did not understand, however. He frowned at her, then laughed at her and her cinnamon dotted cheeks flushed red.
Her diary. Her book. He was holding it in his hands and as he read his words, his gray eyes became a different shade and after a moment, he was laughing, laughing, laughing.
She blinked back tears.
" What's so funny?" She bit her lip, desperately trying to understand. He looked at her, eyes narrowed with malice.
" You. This." He waved her book in her face. " Your silly contemplations. That's what's so funny."
But then, he stopped laughing for a moment and stared at the girl, scrutinized her young, innocent face.
" Is it bad to want to fly?" His face grew grim.
" You silly girl." He sighed softly. There was something wrong with him, she noted.
Why did his voice sound so empty and forlorn? Why was he suddenly sad?
And the girl did not understand as the boy leaned in towards her, pressing his cold lips against hers, did not understand why he had tears rolling down his cheeks. All she knew was that maybe—perhaps, it was another Moment, because she was kissing the boy, and it felt so right and wonderful—
Almost like she was flying in the sky, looking down at everyone as they looked at her in envy.
Almost like her contemplations had come true.
Almost like she was soaring.