Welcome to the show
Chapter 2
Arrival
There was no way out of it. I was hopeless to the host club and there wants.
"Sounds like a good idea, and besides-" Kyoya said while pushing his glasses up. "You would have gone anyways, its free after all."
'Dame that Kyoya' Haruhi thought to herself. She would have gone, but in secret so they didnt have to see her preformance, and now its only going to be them there. At her old home. ,
Eventully, they started plannimg about the trip, how it was a one night event, what to say to the guest, ect. They all went home after their goodbyes, and Haruhi had to practice he preformance. Not much to practice though, she was a pro at most of it, doing it for so long. She started in middle school, then kept going, but when the scolorship came, she told them she had to do her studies and not slack off. They tried time and time again, but fail, and life went on. She never told them where she went and where she moved too, so they could never find her, but they found her, I guess they just kept looking and looking untill they found the right girl, or guy in this case.
She went home, placed her things down in an orginised fasion, and started boiling water over the stove. She was finished with her homework, so she decided to draw. Yes, draw, she was suprisingly good at drawing what she thought. Not objects though, her drawing abilitys only went so far.
She get on the floor in her living room, let her hand feel around untill she found her oil pastels she stratigicly placed so no one could find her stash. She really had no idea what she felt at the moment, thats what really bugged her. She was a person that always knew what was, such as her studies, always the one getting one hundreds, always at the top of her class, so not knowing something so simple was troublesome.
She let her fingers glide along the pastels, the colors smearing along her fragile finger tips. From reds, to the oranges, then she found herself stop at the crystal blue pastel. she found that out of all of the colors, this was one that was never used, the white paper that showed its origin still fresh, not stained with her fingerprints.
As she was about to let the oils set onto the paper, she soon herd the familiar sound of high heel shoes cluch aginst the cement of the stairs. Ranka was home. She put all her oil pastels back under the couch in a rush and ran to the door, opening it right before he walked in.
"Were you waiting for me?" He asked with puppy dog eyes. Before she could answer he ran in hugging her as she flew behind him. "Of corse you did, I love you too." He said doughtingly. She simply went along with and took the breath taking hig. Liturally, she could barly breath.
