AU American Michriu and Haruka. Took a little from the anime, took a little from just...life experience.
She chooses the seat next to yours in the introduction to scientific illustration class. There are many seats that are empty, but she chooses that one. She has long hair, that waves and curls, and she's wearing a flowing dress, despite the fact that it's cold and rainy out. Chunky headphones are slung around her neck, soft music emitting from the speakers. She is slowly unpacking her bag, a sketchpad, a leather journal, a worn cloth pencil case with beads that jingle on the zipper. She looks straight at you, eyes boring into your own, and smiles.
"Hi, I'm Michelle."
You nod, "Amara." Is all you say, trying hard to appear aloof and different. It's difficult when you sense that this girl is more interesting than anyone you've ever met. You feel as if come off as a fifteen year old boy instead.
She finally sits, crossing her legs, slipping her headphones over her ears, and begins to sketch something. You wonder what it is, from your desk you peer over and it kind of looks like wings. This is the first day of this class, so you wonder if that's a personal project or for another class. She seems like the artsy type, so maybe that's her major? You realize you're asking too many questions about a girl who literally just smiled at you. You blush, and hope your short crop of hair hides it.
The class begins and the teacher is speaking about shading. You each have to open your sketchbooks and begin to shade in spheres and cubes. You think lighting also has something to do with it. Either way, your shading comes out looking like a child was scribbling all over a paper. You feel frustrated with it, even though this is a class you're taking because it's supposed to be "easy." You can't help but peek over at Michelle's cubes and spheres. Naturally, they look like they're jumping off the page. She still hasn't taken off her headphones, and you wonder if the teacher just isn't going to say anything, or this is normal for her in these classes. You catch yourself for the millionth time wondering too much about a girl with sparkling blue eyes.
The class ends and you begin to pack up. It's quick for you, just the sketchpad and a single #2 pencil. You throw it in a nondescript black backpack, and ready to move out of your chair.
"Hey," a soft voice from behind you calls and you feel it whisper through your hair.
She is looking up at you from her seat, head tilted to the side.
"I saw you in that track meet this week, you're fast." She smiles with her lips, it's sweet and mysterious. "You can hear the wind rustling, can't you?"
"Sure." You say, sarcastically, and shrug the bag over your shoulder to head for the door. You hope you look cool as you walk out. But later that day, you find yourself sprinting as hard as you can during track practice so you can try to forget her melodious voice that runs circles around your already swirling mind.
She keeps sitting next to you. You notice that, during class, she doodles little things in the margin of your sketchbook. She's especially good at drawing birds. You don't know many great artists, and you definitely don't know birds, but you do see that she manages to capture the movement of a creature that lives by the wind.
The class is 2 hours long, and there's a short break in between the hours. This is where you normally walk to the nearby coffee shop and pick up a small black coffee that you'll sip on the remainder of the class as you try and fail to draw whatever skeleton is being presented.
Most students group off, already friends with each other. But she sits alone in the courtyard, headphones on, sketchbook open, pencil flying across the page. You overhear others talk about how strange she is, to be someone so comfortable being alone.
You know that feeling, where you've had to build up walls to protect yourself from the dangers of the world. The walls where only you exist inside, and no one can touch you. It's protected you as you came out to your parents, got kicked out of the house, received a scholarship for running and moved to the university surrounded by trees and lakes with a roaring ocean nearby. You've spent your life running, and now you've built a great track in your mind. You are secure, independent, and you won't tolerate the spiteful groupthink that turns itself into a disease. It's for this reason, and this reason alone, that you decide to sit next to her in that courtyard one day. That day changes your life.
She's really into studying patterns of nature. She loves birds because "they're amazing at flying." You snort. "Of course, that's what they're designed to do." "No," she argues, "But look, the way that they know how to soar and swoop, no other animals designed to fly can do that. We can only wish to achieve those techniques!" You call her a weirdo, jokingly, but you secretly wish she admitted to paying some sort of attention like that to yourself.
The rest of the semester is passing by, and the two of you sit together in class and during breaks. You've started bringing her coffee (she like hazelnut lattes) and she has started trying to teach you drawing techniques. You don't want to tell her that you're not going to be an artist and that your goal is to just "go fast" but you enjoy the scent of perfume that comes when she leans in close to show you how to hold a pencil.
One day you walk across to meet her in the courtyard and she's playing the violin. It's a somber melody that hits you then engulfs you. Once you had taken a trip to the local beach and watched a piece of driftwood get caught in a wave, and the feeling of being turned over and inside out is how this song gets you. You realize that you're infatuated with her. That you never want to part from her. That she can be the ocean if you can be that piece of driftwood and you've never wanted to be something more in your entire life.
She asks you to drinks one day, completely out of the blue. You are trying to keep it together but inside, the little mini you is running loops and hurdles on that track. You say "Sure, I could go for a drink this week." She grins, "Me too"
Later that night you are sipping on something with whiskey and orange at an old bar. She walks in, another dress flowing around her ankles, small heels and hair waving around her face. Her eyes are glimmering and they look like a sunset over the ocean, and she once again, takes the seat next to yours. She orders a glass of wine and asks you how your day went.
You make a joke, she laughs. You compliment her outfit and she thanks you. She compliments your outfit and you decide maybe this is where you subtly let her know that you're gay and maybe we'll see what happens next? You always did love risks. "Thanks," you hear yourself say, "I chose it because look, gay," you point to your button up shirt, "gay" you point to your pants, just normal jeans but come on, "straight." You're wearing heeled boots, because they make your butt look good. She laughs and looks charmed and you're starting to feel more confidence. Maybe she likes girls after all?
Then a hand from behind reaches her shoulder. Behind her is a girl with wavy brown hair, green eyes and a pretty smile. You're instantly on guard, hackles raised; you try to take a sip of your drink to appear too busy to actually notice her. They're friends from an old class and she is inviting this intruder to drink with you two.
And you realize now, like a big fat idiot, that this was not a date. It might never have been a date, like a date in which there's a promise of romance. Your wall builds back up slowly and you are engaging in conversation but it feels like an out of body experience. You finish your drink too quickly, and you make excuses to leave early. You walk out of the old bar, feeling eyes on your back but you're too mad at yourself to turn around.
Outside, the air is cool, and the night sky is clear. You see the stars twinkling above as if the cosmos themselves are laughing at you. You don't know why you feel so heartbroken over something that may have just been an innocent friendship or why you expected anything to happen when its not like the two of you ever actually talked about dating. But you do, and you get into your car and race home and from that point on, you never stop running again.