You first see her on a rainy day in September.
You are on your way to your first class of the morning. The sky overhead is agitated and prone to random bouts of showers, one of which is currently soaking you to the bone.
You hold an umbrella over your head, but it is futile; your hair has already grown to several times its original size and has begun migrating towards your face. Little strands tickle your nose and you vow to pull it back the instant you get somewhere dry.
You must look ridiculous.
You notice her because of her peculiar position. In the middle of the path she stands, arms stretched to the sky as if in prayer. Face upturned, she does not seem to mind the rain as it strikes her; in fact she seems to revel in it. The bangles on her wrists glisten; her glasses drip moisture onto her cheeks. Eyes closed, a smile on her face, she gives praise to the clouds and the distant thunder.
You run a hand through your hair and frown. Should you approach her? She seems to be involved in some sort of private ritual, and you aren't sure how she'd react to being interrupted.
But she must be getting cold. And, your umbrella is just big enough for two.
You take a deep breath.
You take a chance.
She opens her eyes when she feels a sudden lack of rain on her face, and you are relieved when her immediate response to your presence is to grin.
"Oh," she says. "How embarrassing."
"Not at all," you assure her with a smile. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself. But, it is rather cold out here. A little too cold for dancing in the rain, don't you think?"
She shivers, as if your words have reminded her. "You're right," she says. "Thanks."
"Not at all," you say again, because you're finding it hard to come up with new things to say while looking at those hazel eyes. They practically glow, and draw you in with a heat you can feel in your bones.
It begins.
—
Cosima Niehaus is a special individual whose odd activities are not, in fact, limited to dancing in the rain.
She also enjoys staring at flowers for very long periods of time; sometimes stroking them gently, sometimes whispering softly. She stands outside with her face to the sky in any weather and will sometimes come back inside with cheeks pink from the sun's rays. She collects fallen leaves and has books filled with them.
She is wonderful.
The two of you see each other a lot, now. You meet her in coffee shops, intending for a quick breakfast, and end up talking for hours. You write her notes to read in class. She catches up to you on campus and you sit together on the grass and watch the weather grow colder.
You watch her inspect the leaves that have fallen, looking for the ones with the prettiest hues.
She picks up one of the deepest bronze; even you have to admit it's beautiful. It is also sad, however. It can barely be called a leaf at all; filled with holes and pockmarks and torn nearly in half, it is hardly salvageable.
It wouldn't make a good addition to her collection.
She shows it to you, and her face glows with pride as you take it and admire it.
"Beautiful," you murmur as she sits next to you again. "It's too bad about the damage."
That's when she takes it from you. A wicked grin crosses her face. "Watch this," she whispers conspiratorially. You watch as she presses the leaf between her two palms. She rubs them together a little, and you feel yourself becoming puzzled. What on Earth…?
She opens her hands.
You gasp.
There, resting on her hand is the same bronze-colored leaf. However, it is different; the holes have mended without seams. The pockmarks have disappeared without a trace.
Somehow, she has made it whole again, so that you can't tell it was ever torn to begin with.
"Even the most terrible scars can be healed," she tells you, and in her eyes you can see her soul.
And that is the moment you realize that Cosima Niehaus is an entirely different kind of special.
—
She has many strange abilities.
"I don't know why," she tells you. "I've just kind of always been able to do it, you know? Like breathing."
She meets you before class and, after making sure no one is around, procures you a flower from thin air. She cups her palms and from them it grows. You watch it pull upwards and blossom with your heart in your throat.
"For my lady," she says cheekily, offering it to you. You accept it and give it a sniff.
"How romantic," you sigh dramatically, and she wiggles her eyebrows.
"What can I say? I'm a lady killer."
You peck her on the cheek before you can think about it, but the glow on her cheeks that results is worth it.
You're falling.
—
She can make the weather change at will.
"I like making it rain the most," she says. "But sometimes I can't control it, I guess? Like if I'm upset it kind of gets out of control. One time my dog died and it stormed for three weeks straight."
You raise your eyebrows.
"I know, dude! It was totally crazy. I still feel kind of bad about it. There was like, all this flooding and stuff-"
You can see her beginning to beat herself up, so you grab her face and kiss her softly. When you pull away, she has been sufficiently quieted.
"It wasn't your fault," you murmur. "Understand?"
She nods, wide-eyed. It's the first time you've kissed her anywhere but on her cheek, and you're pretty sure you've struck her dumb.
A moment goes by before she finally speaks.
"Whoa. Can we do that again?"
You laugh, shake your head and pull her in for more.
—
On your first date she takes you to a clearing in a nearby forest and makes flowers grow around your picnic spot, right before your eyes.
The weather said it was supposed to be overcast today, but instead it is sunny. A cool breeze pulls at your curls. She winks at you and puts a finger to her lips.
You are in love, you think as a doe slips out of the trees at her silent call.
Definitely.
—
She spends an entire night telling you what she loves about you.
You lie naked together in your bed, and she points out every little thing. Her fingers brush over every freckle, every scar. She asks where each scar came from and recites the stories back to you. She follows the curve of your arm and says she loves it.
She says she loves all of you.
You cry and let her wipe the tears away.
"This is the only part I don't like," she whispers as she catches each one. "I wish you didn't have to cry."
It is so innocent and profound that it makes you cry more.
—
You are in class when the storm starts, and at first you think nothing of it.
But soon it grows in intensity and with it, your unease. A knot forms in your stomach as the wind howls louder and the rain becomes more persistent. The thunder gives a ferocious roar and in it you can almost hear her screaming.
You shove your books into your backpack and run out of the room so fast you don't register the faces staring after you in confusion.
You find her sitting on a bench, her head in her hands. You find upon further inspection that despite the torrential rain, she is bone dry.
You kneel before her and take her wrists, delicately. She raises her head with a few anguished sniffles and brings her gaze to yours.
The minute your eyes meet, the rain stops.
—
She is sick.
You don't know to what degree because she won't tell you, but you can tell by the pain in her eyes and the whiteness of her face that the answer is very, very sick.
Weeks pass without much change in her demeanor. She still makes flowers grow in random places in your house (you found one growing out of your bed this morning) and she is still insufferable in the best way.
She agrees to come with you to your lecture, but instead of paying attention she rubs her foot slowly, sensually, up and down your leg. Even when you're trembling and shooting her little glares, she doesn't stop.
When the lecture is finally over you turn immediately to her. "You are such a brat," you whisper, trying to be angry. She just smirks at you.
"You'll be singing a different tune when we get home, Delphine Cormier," she taunts, leaning so close you can practically hear what she's thinking.
You go back to your apartment, and she kisses you the whole way there. She rips your clothes off like the world is burning down and this is your last chance. She kisses you with ferocity and her fingers leave you breathless by the end of the night.
"I love you," you groan.
Singing a different tune, indeed.
—
She deteriorates with the coming of winter.
There is nothing the doctors can do. They recommend she stay at the hospital, let them make her comfortable. She refuses.
She sits outside for long periods of time. Legs crossed, eyes closed, she seems very deep in conversation with someone.
Maybe herself.
Sometimes you go and sit with her, but she never acknowledges your presence.
The flowers that grew in all the little corners of your apartment begin to wither, and with them, your heart.
—
The day she leaves you is clear and sunny despite a forecast of rain.
She is breathing heavily, her face pained, and just before she goes she brings a finger to her lips and winks.
—
You go through the hundreds of books full of leaves that line her bookshelves. You find that they not only contain the leaves, but poems as well.
You begin pulling all of the books out, one by one, with intent to read all of them. However, one catches your eye. It is homemade, and on it your name is engraved.
Your heart leaps to your throat. You slide it delicately off the shelf and flip it open.
Inside you find the leaf that she'd changed right before your eyes, still as bright and beautiful as ever. Beside it, a hastily scribbled note.
Delphine,
Even the most painful scars can be healed
You wonder if the ones she made when she left you ever will.