#gxg fluff | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alleyangelss · 20 days ago

Text

there's nothing else it could mean

- playing cupid; matchmaker

༶•┈┈⛧┈♛♛┈⛧┈┈•༶

''truth is, I knew. I should've expected to get this attached to you."

pairings! brother's bff sophia x fem! reader

tags! heavy angst, childhood friends, highschool, fluff, mostly fluff I think, the plot is fucking everyone up, sunshine x grumpy, y/n plays hockey, pining on sophia's side it's crazy, kinda oblivious y/n, god they're all emotionally constipated, switching povs, someone is down badd, i lied they're both down bad, theater kids at the back, Gabriela mentioned:), what in the situationship

synopsis! your brother's best friend is nothing short of a ray of sunshine, coined by everyone, and you agree. and it's obvious now, that they've got a love story set for themselves. it is the kind of friends to lovers trope, childhood best friends, everything and every trope that is full of sweethearts in books and movies. everyone expects it. especially you, when you're the one who's been trying to play matchmaker to your brother's crush on her for years. it seems that fate wants them together. you're sure she sees you as nothing more than her best friend's sister...right?

wc! I don't know I wrote it on here but def long

a/n! ok I admit I read puppy love by @zuhaism and uhh I kinda fell in love with the idea of the brother's bff trope, especially the childhood bits. Biggg creds to them their writing is amazing I would buy billboards to promote them. also um you're kinda in for a hell of a ride. one shot! for once! maybe! Also Alex slander we hate Alex in this house!! + my writing style is wildly different but the Alex slander remains

disclaimers! Guys. I know nothing about hockey. I also know nothing about West Side Story I was making up shit that is not the plot alright guys

Your first lesson in romance isn't your friends, your cousins, your relatives. It isn't from the movies and books either. It's from the fake tree with the ugly spikes that Mom complained about, that ended up in the corner of your house anyway.

It starts slowly. All things do. You still remember the car, the sound of it's tires testing through the harsh pavement of the drive through, rubbing and scrapping sounds of earth. You remember the wailing sounds of the sirens, no in the roads, but in your own head-blaring, screaming at you as the shadow behind you makes a move for the door. But you don't, of course you don't. It doesn't run after the leaving vehicle, just slumps again the door frame, the open door frame, and weeps.

He leaves with a simple suitcase and luggage, as if he could pack up the five years of life he'd spent here within less than one room of confinement. As if he could pack five years worth into one tiny bag, one tiny slip of space. But he leaves nonetheless, bringing just that and leaving everything else behind. Your twin brother, Theo for short, mirrors mom and slumps against where he is now. He is becoming a shadow, too. You rush to him, your feet flying across the tiles on the floor to him. You feel for his face, something wet already touching your palms, flowing down his cheek. Theo, your twin brother older than you by about a minute and a half, the one that always called you a baby for doing that, is crying. It's cold, and the car had just trudged through layers of snow to get out, as if the snow was barricading it and begging it to not go. It's collapsing now, falling from the mailbox, the planks of the fence, the sharp points of the gate. Falling in, caving in on that driveway, hiding them. The absence of the car. It's cold, but not just because of the snow.

The sky is turning from blue to red. Like the sirens, like in your head. It doesn't flash, it flows down. Like a river.

If you stay here anyway longer, your fingers and lips will turn blue, not the baby blue of the painted mailbox, but the exact dark blue of the colour pencil you're missing-Theo stole it to colour a picture of the sea he drew. Not that the mailbox was still blue anyway, but it was. It's scrapped now, the wood at the top splintering onto it and the paint cracking at every corner. It's aged, but Mom has never asked to repaint it.

It is that exact day you paint the mailbox that Theo discovers his fascination with the sea. Baby blue. A colour that Mom and Dad and argued over, because Mom's preference was clearly white while Dad's was some horrid shade of red. Personally, you agreed with Mom on that, but you weren't about to argue with Dad, especially when he had just handed you yet another lollipop-something Mom wouldn't have done even if the devil had threatened her. You also completely agreed with the fact that Dad chose that particular shade of red was just to spite Mom. Not that you could fault him, of course. Mom did look extremely funny when she turned red, and her cheeks puffed up like a cartoon character. Honestly, you couldn't tell if Mom hated it or loved it when Dad did that.

You end up choosing the colour of the mailbox, the first thing that comes to your mind after looking at the sky-the colour of the sky, of course. Mom laughs, a nice, loud and full sound, saying that perhaps your simple way of thinking is best sometimes. Theo tags along to the shop, tripping over his laces again because he still hasn't learnt how to do his shoelaces. He spots the marine creature themed wallpaper at the edge of the room, near the paint shop, and falls in love with it immediately. Seriously. You almost think you can see hearts and light sprout in his eyes the moment it comes into his vision. Red hearts, golden lights and freckles sprouting in his brown eyes that clearly came from Dad. Sure, Mom had brown eyes too, but the shape didn't quite match. Dad's, on the other hand, were oval in shape and narrowed at either end. Brown, brown eyes with sparkles in them. Marine life and sea-creatures are Theo's first love, Mom jokes, even though you don't understand then. First love, Dad agrees. He joins in on the laughter, chortling loudly, the funny sound further prompting yet another giggle from Mom. And Theo, Theo who is still gazing helplessly at the fishes on the wall with not a clue as to what they were talking about, laughs too. It is all different laughs-Dad's loud guffawing, Mom's small but light giggles, and Theo's pure and adultered squeals of nonsensical words. The corners of your lips raise despite yourself, and it breaks from your throat, rising up into the air and out. You laugh too, and you feel the bucket of paint almost drop from your fingers. It rattles and shakes, balancing precariously on the tips. It doesn't fall.

It gives you a rough idea. Dad's eyes are no different from Theo's. Brown and sparkling. Mom's eyes, blue, the blue of a darker day, no sparkles at all. No glitter, no sparks. Empty.

Now, the snow still falls, but your eyes are locked on your brother's. They look more like snowglobes than those brown doe eyes you're used to, glistening and reflecting the view of falling snowflakes, mirroring them as they fall down, down, down into the gray pavement and cover up the traces that anyone had ever left, on that day.

You can hear Christmas jingles from across the street, blasting from speakers at every corner, at every single department store. You can bet you'll hear one if you switch on the radio now. The campfire has put itself out, ashes remaining and the soot leaking out, not to the chimney, but rather towards you, as if gravitating. You move aside, wrestle with yourself for a moment before grabbing your brother into your arms, holding tight, tight, even tighter when his fingernails start digging into your back and you can feel the tears, oh, the tears fall into your shoulder. Suddenly, it doesn't bother you that he's almost a head taller than you despite you being the same age. It doesn't bother you that he didn't give you anything for your birthday, it doesn't bother you at all.

Mom is still at the door. Her lips are turning blue, but she stays. It is one thing to feel pain, but another to wish for it. You watch the snow beneath the doorframe, climbing to it, icicles clinging to it for dear life. It melts, melts down as the warm, salty tears drip down onto the ground and puddle into it. Melts, burns down and forms a crater in the center of that frozen winter landscape. Soon, multiple more craters form. There are small, tear-sized potholes in the snow by the doorframe.

On a better day, Mom would say they were like polka dots. Black dots against the white black fabric, something Mom loved and Dad hated. Yet another thing they saw opposite about.

The red wrappings and shimmering lights on the artificial tree in the room feel dizzying as you keep gazing into it, purposely missing your mother's eyes. No. You break free from your hug with Theo for a moment-just a second, to flick the switch off with your pinky, just the way Dad did. Just the way he did a week ago, when he came with steaming cups of hot chocolate piped with whipped cream and sprinkled with cinnamon, all while holding a huge wrapped gift for Mom. He'd flashed a smile at everyone, feigned being dramatic and gasped in exaggeration, when the christmas tree lights turned off and he then turned them on again. A cool trick, though you'd already learned it seconds within performance of it. Just a day ago, he'd come home with flowers wrapped in a big red ribbon for Mom, who had almost cried at the sight. The tree that he turned on a week ago stayed light, never turned off, and funnily enough, Mom-who usually hated wasting electricity, or anything for that matter-didn't protest.

The lights go out, the cycle, the blinking orbs on the wall disappearing with them. You tear your gaze from the walls.

"No, turn them back on," Mom says, the words slipping from her lips the way a sled would do a slope. Haphazardly. You don't understand then, why she'd want to do that when she's clearly crying. You never do. She doesn't mean it. She doesn't. You hesitate to flick on the switch again, your finger hovering over it. It's as if she knows, because she turns her head towards you.

"Hey, baby, it's Christmas. Turn it back on." That's not a smile, but you do. She smiles when the lights come back on, now red and green, those same colours illuminating the wall.

You don't flick it with your pinkies this time, instead using your index finger. The tree stays on for days afterward, days into January and the snow keeps barricading the gates. Days on, weeks on, and until the lights on the tree finally give out and spoil. Even then, the tree remains there, artificial and all. It'll never die, that's what Dad told you. He bought it so that they could keep reusing it, so that they'll never have to replace it-and then he whispered, conspiring with you, that it was to appease Mom. She hated wasting money, after all. She hated wasting anything-and you'd always been fed up by that. She'd always tell you to finish your food, never leave the carrots, those horrible carrots, on the plate. Eat them all up, otherwise they wouldn't get to play. Finish keeping up everything before you start something else. Dad was different, the complete opposite, the parallel of Mom, and yet, he didn't seem fed up at all. He'd allow you to eat ice cream before dinner, allow Theo to go to the arcade and go to the playground before doing homework.

So the tree remains on. And you remember thinking vividly, for days afterward, how unfortunate it was for that to happen on Christmas.

That's how you have your first lesson in romance-from a trick, the driveway, and the Christmas tree lights. Keep it in, keep it on. And when your Mom still didn't keep the tree after months, you make yourself a stupid yet perfectly sound promise at the same time.

Don't break anything, don't break friendships, don't break relationships, and don't break hearts. Don't.

Your mom's lips and fingers always seem purple afterwards, and Theo's eyes have become snowglobes, his golden sparks becoming empty white flakes. You don't change, because you'd seen Dad kiss another women in the mirror when you came home early one day months back because you were sick, and you saw them just on each other, and your Dad call her names you thought were reserved for Mom, and Mom alone.

You'd seen them, as you dropped your bag on the front porch, and you'd ran, ran all the way to the park, losing your breath and yet still going. It is then that you lost what Theo had always called the swirls in your eyes for the moment. They disappeared for a moment.

You are wary at first when Theo's friends show up at your doorstep. Sure, not your doorstep. His, and Mom's, too. His friends come with nothing this time, now of their bikes, and now of their badminton rackets. You almost wonder if they're coming in-god no, you'd never let them in, when Theo comes up behind you and pushes the door open, and you too. You get pushed out too, and the sun hits your eyes and you flinch and wince at the same time, which you just discovered was possible. The moment the door opens, the group comes in, trampling and pushing you aside to even risk a peek of Theo at the doorstep. It's the usual crowd. Theo, with his fluffy brown hair, and the other mess of blond and brunettes that blend into each other. All with blue, blue eyes and one of them perhaps green. They all look the same. But one stands out, perhaps when Theo picks her hand out of the crowd and drags her out first. You wouldn't have seen her otherwise-she is even shorter than you, despite looking around the same age as you. She had long, long black hair that falls down, way past her shoulders, and black eyes the colour of shadows, the colour of the shade the tree casts when the sun hits it just right. She looks so, so different from everyone else that you feel the axis of the world tilt when you first meet her.

She is all smiles and loud laughs when Theo drags her down the steps to the front door, and she jumps-she jumps down the steps that you're too scared to even skip two of for fear of falling. She lands perfectly, and Theo too, still grasping her hand, as they both stand on the grass, still and not falling even as you feel the earth tilt again. The rest of Theo's friends try jumping too, all either missing the grass by inches or just falling flat, and getting scrapes on their legs and arms, and one on their face-and yet, they laugh it off. They bleed, and they laugh it off. You wouldn't dare to do that. The world is still spinning-

But then it stops. She glances over at you, and her eyes light up again. It is the first time you see what you've heard Theo say you've been missing for years, swirls in her eyes. They are not golden, they are not silver, but they are near translucent. Like she cut out pieces of the sky and placed them in her eyes, like little gusts of wind as they moved about, circling her pupil. They are hypnotizing, reminding you of those lame magic tricks that Theo used to try to pull on you, and the magic set that still lay in some corner of the house. Probably Theo's room.

The swirls are there, and you blink again to make sure you're not seeing things. Blink, and suddenly she's up on your doorstep again. She moved within the blink of an eye. You find yourself ironically blinking yet again in surprise, and let out an audible gasp when she grabs your hand firmly by the wrist-and how is her grip so tight? She runs you down the steps, and you're forced to keep up with her pace and leave the door open as you and your brother's friends, and this strange girl run to the playground. You've memorised this route now, the amount of times that you've needed to run here to tell Theo that Mon wanted them to eat dinner. You run, the wind hitting your eyes, your face and your hair, and you glance at the girl. Her face is red and she's close to panting, yet she still goes. In fact, she goes until you hit hit the sandpit of the playground, your shoes drawing lines in the ground.

You can see Theo bouncing over impatiently on the soles of his feet, sprinting over to you faster that you'd ever seen-though he doesn't spare you a glance. His gaze is locked on the girl with the black hair and matching eyes beside you, still holding your hand.

"Soph! God, why'd you break free of my hand? I told you to stay close!" His gaze finally shifts to you, giving you attention for a few seconds. But his expression contorts, changes to something far, far different from what was on his face when he was talking to 'Soph'. He moves over to Sophia, nudging her shoulder while she playfully pushed back, and to your shock-he grins. You thought he'd frown and push harder, but he took it. He pushes again, lightly, and dashes to the side when the girl turns around to shove him harder. She ends up pushing the air, and she angrily stomps the ground. They end up chasing each other around the playground, their friends cheering both of them on, before your brother lets the question slip.

"Hey, why'd you bring her here? We're going to play hide and seek-do you even know who she is, anyway, Soph?"

Clearly the girl doesn't, shaking her head. You almost want to palm yourself in the face. She'd dragged a complete stranger to her out to play in the playground-she's an absolute idiot, and you're about to tell her that when she grasps your hand again, and all the words in your throat get shoved back down. The girl recklessly swings you to her side, sticking out her tongue at your brother, who looks at her as if challenging her to something.

"Yea, and you suck at it. I bet I'll beat you if we went now." Her voice rings confidently in the air, though she has anything but a promise of winning. Her voice is still hoarse, she is still trying to recover her lost breath from the run, and she is still clinging onto your hand for dear life.

"Really? You were the one that lost last time, remember?" That's your brother's voice. It comes with a light teasing smirk this time, and it seems to trigger the girl beside you, because her grip on you tightens ever further somehow, and she shoots back an answer without much thought.

"And that was only because you cheated!"

Either way, cheating or not, the game starts when Theo starts counting down from fifty, leaning on the tree nearest to the playground swing. You start running, but you turn around and the girl isn't there. Your hand clenches around itself, and for a moment, you scold yourself for forgetting she'd already let go of your hand.

Sophia is so focused on running as far as she can from the place where Theo is counting down from that she forgets that she actually needs to hide. And before she can think of a smarter way, to prove her right before Theo catches her immediately, and she loses her bet, she hears someone whisper. A soft, different voice. A voice definitely not suited for a game like hide and seek, which is rough and fast and hoarse. She looks around for the source of the voice before a hand drags her and pulls her under the slide. She's about to scream, but the other matching hand of the voice muffles it. She struggles, using her hands to hit their face before she gaze catches into their eyes.

Oh. It's the girl she pulled here, the girl from the house.

"God, why were you just running? Didn't you make a bet with my brother? And don't you know how this game works?"

The same voice. Annoyed, frustrated almost, and yet angelic. Not like Theo's, of course. Theo is a natural singer-that's what she heard the music teachers say at school. But this girl, this girl's voice has hoarse and deep undertones and sounds so unlike hers, so different from her own that she likes it. She likes the way it bobs up the girl's throat and rings out. Sophia likes it more than she'll admit. She ends up blinking stupidly at the girl before realising she'd asked a question-and god, so much for first impressions.

"I-I do! I just got distracted, that's all." She ends up blurting out a ridiculous excuse and feels her cheeks heating up from it. She hears the girl huff in frustration, and Sophia's getting pissed herself. If her cheeks weren't already red from running, they definitely are now. The girl is so close-one wrong touch, and their noses would touch. It's very cramped in here, and she's willing to bet that the girl didn't think about that before pulling her into this space. One move, and she feels goosebumps forming on her arm. She gasps in surprise, her chest suddenly hitching upward when she feels the girl's breath float near the arm. The girl turns around, face still as pale as the sand they're standing on. She's even more pissed now, definitely. Still, Sophia feels her cheeks burning even more now, when the girl looks at her again. She looks away, on the pretense of scouting out for Theo, but that lie falls flat and dies immediately when she realises that she's looking straight into the thick, blocked plastic of the back of the slide. Her neck, the tip of her ears turn the same colour as her lips and cheeks surely are now. The girl scoffs loudly, but looks away as well.

It must be by some absurd stroke of unfortunate luck that they both look back at each other in exactly the same millisecond, turn their heads straight to each other at the same blink of an eye, and Sophia looks straight into what must be an angel's eyes.

If she was close earlier, that feels like a mile compared to the mere centimeters that separate them now. She sees everything. The brown of her hair, the roots distinctly a deep, dark and rich brown colour like milk chocolate. Exactly the same as Theo's, and the same curls, just much longer. Curls that fall past the shoulders, and almost matches the length of her own hair. Curls that look silky, heavenly, like waves of silk and swirls of milk in the coffee she's seen Dad drink. The colour fades as it goes down, like shifting, playing with a colour meter, pulling down the saturation gradient. Her hair goes from a deep brown to almost the shade of a fox's coat, ashy red. Sophia's proud of herself for knowing that term, she's used it to impress multiple people already, including her friends. And especially Theo. Theo was always particularly intrigued by anything related to colours and the sea.

And the sea. She can't help but match that with the girl's eyes. Her eyes are so wildly far from Theo's it's almost crazy. Maybe she is crazy. She doesn't know why she keeps comparing them, they're definitely not related. But they seem similar, and Sophia swears they have the same noise. The girl's eyes flicker and have the shape of a angry cat's, and Sophia can certainly imagine her hissing like one. This girl is just like a cat-she scowls and flinches like one, and her eyes-

Her eyes are the sea. Sophia isn't the best at colours-Theo is the expert when it comes to that, but even then, she's not sure Theo would be able to tell her for sure the colour of this girl's eyes. They are a mix of everything green and blue, like a whirlpool, the waters sucking down into the pits of it, causing a swirl. A big, deep swirl in the center-the pupil. Like the center of a tornado, a hurricane, but a whirlpool was better. Pulling her in, for sure. With the little swirls floating around the pupil of her eye individually. The sea, with all its clouds floating above, blending into each other and she could still pick up each individual swirl.

She takes another breath. She inhales, and yet the girl is still there. It's like they are frozen in time, mere decimals of meters apart, and none of them moves. But then, of course she messes up. Her hand, planted on the sand, slips. It slides, and Sophia collapses, her head onto the girl's shoulder, so that her hair brushes her face and her eyes and lips are met with the girl's exposed skin on her neck. The girl flinches, and she hurriedly gets up, almost hitting her head on the slide. Sophia moves backwards, her face too red to fluster even more.

Instead, the girl's cheeks turn pink. She wants to say it's pretty, but she stops herself when the girl has a murderous look on her face. For a second, she's caught a wisp of her. She smells like antiseptic. Medicine. The thing that mom always brought out to treat her cuts and scrapped knees from falling down on the pavement while chasing Theo, or from biking after him.

The memory of the smell doesn't distract her from her eyes on the girl's cheeks, which are turning increasingly pink under her gaze. Sophia continues looking, as her cheeks finally blossom into red and climbs up to reach her ears. Her eyes narrow down and her eye brows furrow, and it confirms Sophia's comparison of her to a cat.

"What are you doing? What was that?" The girl scowls again, but Sophia can tell it's not genuine. She's flustered, there's hesistation and panic in that tone.

Of once, Sophia should retort back smartly, like how she does with Theo and everyone else. But she can't. She's usually called witty and out-spoken by the teachers and everyone else, but here? She can't. Sprawled on the sand, one hand on the edge of the slide, and one hand still firmly planted in the sand, she meets the first person that's managed to shut her up.

The person that's shut her up is a girl that's mirroring her position, her legs both on the sand and both her hands on the side of the slide. She's scowling and hisses like a cat.

Sophia feels something warm again, and she brings her fingers up from the sand to run them over her face. It's not that. It's closer to her chest. It burns, and it's like there is a little fireplace in place of her heart. It burns, and sends its soot and ashes up the chimmey-her throat, and renders her speechless. It burns, and her blood feels like it's on fire and her vessels are thumping against her skin. She looks at the girl, and she feels like her heart is about to burst.

Before Sophia can do another stupid thing, there's a loud rustling sound of leaves, as if someone ran them in a wild race. It's really, really loud, and it vibrates in their ears and resounds in her head louder than it should be. It overpowers the other girl's startled gasp, and god, Sophia's angry at leaves now. She wanted to hear her voice, her slightly rough voice that sounded like no other. She wants to wallow in pity for herself and what she's missed, but she doesn't get the chance, because she's suddenly pulled back into the whirlpool that is this girl's eyes.

It is the second time this girl has grabbed Sophia's hand, and her grip is firm and softer than it ever could be at the same time. It is gripped in a hurry, her fingers wrapping around when wrists like vines around a tree, suffocating, her pulse throbbing loudly beneath it, like the roots of said tree spiraling on the ground. The grass, the soil beneath the tree sprouts plants, ferns, mushrooms-as her arm, her skin, the tree's soil, has another wave of goosebumps again. All because of this girl's second touch. Her hands are very warm, warmer than the sun on the playground. Warmer than the heated sand they are sitting on, and somehow Sophia is sure that they're somehow warmer than the metal hooks on the swing that would burn her, scorch her if she even so touched them. They are warmer than everything, all of that, and she her skin doesn't burn away into flakes. Her blood boils and heats. It skips right through her skin to her very blood. It is so loud, and Sophia can't tell whether it's the continuous rustling of leaves or the loud pulse she hears echoing in her ears.

"Hey! Listen, and be quiet. I mean it," the girl's face was serious now, eyebrows creasing yet again and her lips pressed down into a pout. Perfect cresents, like the moon. On some nights. The moon doesn't distract her from what the girl's saying, though. She doubts anything could interest her as much as this girl's voice. "They're going to catch us here if we both stay. I'm going to make a run for it, and once you hear them come after me, you go hide behind that tree at the evey edge, you hear me?"

Sophia nods, she nods without really listening, her face blank. There is something else distracting her, and the girl seems either really angry that she's not getting through her, or frustrated at the fact that they'll be caught soon.

"Hey! Hey! You have a bet, right? You have to win this. Run when you hear them scream again, ok?" The girl picks up her hands from the slide, and bends her knees, waiting for the perfect moment to dash out, like a cat getting ready to pounce. Sophia hastily puts her hand on her knee. The girl's knee is not scrapped. And that should be normal, except that Sophia's are always raw and constantly bleeding-and when she continues travelling down, her fingers flying, fluttering down the girl's legs, she feels nothing. No scabs, no scars, not even a slight bump or abrasions. There is nothing. Her legs are perfectly clean, and her skin-god, her skin is silk. She feels like the cool bedsheets Sophia presses to her face every night, the one after the cold air in the room hits her. It is so pale-and it's the same colour as the skin of her cheeks. That's rare.

Sophia's own legs are tanned and she has a tan line near the end of her legs, where she covers her feet with socks and sneakers. But this girl, this girl has none of that. It's as if she's never been in the sun at all. As if she is ur stayed locked up, locked up in a some tower like the fairytsles. Sophia's eyes still lock on them in wonderment, trailing up and up, until she feels a hand slap her away. Sophia hisses in pain for a split second, before recoiling on herself when she sees the girl's expression change. Her face is pink now, a different shade than the legs. Pink.

It's pretty, that's the first thing she thinks. Seeing when flustered expression, her lips slightly parted as if to hide a gasp, and her eyes shifting to look at everywhere but her. The second is that the girl is mad, and yet, she's still looking away. But Sophia doesn't feel any anger radiating off her.

"Wait-how about you? Theo runs really fast, you'll get caught!"

The girl's expression flickers for a second, but it disappears just as fast. Confusion, then right back to determination. "It's fine. I'm not that important. Your bet is more important, besides, it's the first time I've ever seen someone make Theo stick it to himself like that," the girl huffs. She looks back at Sophia before whispering another thing.

"Oh, and if you do win, make sure to never let Theo forget. Make him never hear the end of it," and she says it while grinning. She's smiling, and Sophia finds herself to. She's smiling. Close to laughing, almost. She finds herself mouthing a thank you, a thank you to the air when the sand around her flies in her face and she knows, she knows that the girl has started to pick up the pace. And then she hears the sound of Theo and her other friends screaming and probably chasing wildly after the girl, and she makes a run for it, booking it for the the tree on the other side of the playground. Sure enough, from behind the tree, she can see Theo and the people he's caught-everyone besides her at this rate-chasing after the girl. They catch her, and Sophia feels her pulse race again when she's won.

Afterwards, when the group is sprawled on the grass, she sticks it to Theo. Theo flushes red, and Sophia knows he's a sore loser inwards, but to his credit, he doesn't say anything. He vents his feelings on the girl, teasing her relentlessly about being caught and not being able to run fast enough. Sophia's about to speak up, about to tell Theo that the girl should've won-because she would have, if not for Sophia's mistake at the start. She should've lost.

But even before she can tap Theo's shoulder, the girl sends her a glance, and puts a finger to her lips. Her eyes narrow, and Sophia feels yet another flush of heat go to her cheeks. Theo tries to get her attention, and she turns around to him, her other hand searching for the girl's-and she feels it. The girl holds onto her hand while they still lie in the grass, and Sophia might just shift towards her direction. Because the shade is there, of course.

The group trek back uphill to Theo's house before dropping him off at his doorstep, as well as the girl. The girl almost lets go of her hand completely, as the door almost closes between them and she's left on their doorstep. Sophia pushes the door open with her other hand hurriedly, almost ending up on the floor of the living room with the girl under her. But she doesn't. The door swings wide open, hitting the frame with a click, and the girl stares at her, eyes widened. And of course, she doesn't expect it. Sophia doesn't expect it either, and she doesn't know what she's doing, but she grasps the girl's hand in hers again.

"Hey! I didn't find out your name!" It bursts from her throat, and lands on the floor between them. She's so earnest, she can hear it herself. She curls in on herself, and she's sure she looks like a small kicked puppy. The girl looks up, looks at their joined hands, looks at Sophia's flustered face, and giggles. Sophia thinks her giggles sound like raindrops hitting the harsh pavement, bursting into even smaller droplets when they break. It spreads, like ripples, and she feels her pulse in her hand feel suffocated again, her heart thumping harder than when she's running.

The girl looks at her, looks into her eyes, and her lips feel parched. Dry. Cracked, grainy, dry, like the sand of the playground. Like the heat of her hands. Like splinters, her teeth start digging into the walls of her mouth. It tears, it breaks.

"It's y/n, y/n l/n. And what's yours, unless you'd like me to call you red, from the colour of your face?"

Her breath breaks. It is not just her lips. It is her whole throat, down to the very nerves of her fingers and her tongue.

"Sophia. It's Sophia."

She swears she sees the slightest smile on y/n's face when she closes the door shut.

The last thing she hears, that stays in her head, is her very own name. Said from y/n's mouth.

"Bye, Sophia!"

The last thing she sees, though, is golden freckles. Golden freckles in y/n's eyes. They've appeared suddenly, as if they were shadowed earlier by the sun and now they were gone. The cloud stays away, the shadows are no longer in her eyes.

Sophia stays on her doorstep, freezes there for a second too long, her hand on the door handle, before walking back home with red on her cheeks. Her hands fall cold again, and she tucks them into the pocket of her pants, but not before rubbing them against each other. Even the heat of the sun is not enough.

Sophia thinks about the freckles when she dodges the sun again, and suddenly her cheeks, her palms are heated again.

The first time you realise Sophia is nothing short of perfect is when you all play a game on the floor, on the floor of your basement. You've joined their little group now, despite your brother's protests. Sophia has always stuck by you, and if your brother resisted, she'd just hold your hand with her death grip-and even after two years, you still haven't figured out how she does it-and never let go. Your brother would have no choice not to give up then, grudgingly. This group has changed much over the years. There is not a single person here that has remained over the two years. Oliver moved out of town a year ago, and you distinctly remember Theo had a large falling out with the other two boys. Now, there's two new boys that you don't bother to learn the names of because they'll go, for sure.

But then the doorbell rings, and you and your brother race to get it. Because you both know who's standing outside. The one person that's stayed, Sophia. You remember her crying, sobbing, over the fact that the group fell out a while ago. And when your brother was still fuming, you'd taken her up to your own room, made her hot chocolate, and let her sleep in your own bed. It was weird. She liked to sleep with the lights now, even if they shone down in her face and pierced through her eyelids. She liked to have the curtains closed, even though that made it darker-which directly contradicted the point of turning on the lights. She liked to have the blankets tucked up to her chin, and not just barely up to the chest, despite it being too hot that way. And that also made the blanket leave her legs uncovered, where they were quivering from the cold-you had then taken some socks from your wardrobe to give her, the soft pink ones that someone had gotten you for your birthday. Everything else in your sock drawer was plain white, and you didn't like pink. That was the reason. Sophia was a strange girl, that's what you thought, as she laid on the bed with her eyes still open and looking at you, her eyes still half-lidded, red and puffy from crying her heart out earlier.

But strangest of all, Sophia wanted you to sleep with her. She'd open the covers again, even after you tucked her in again and again. She'd insist on it, pulling your hand again, with her signature death grip and latching onto you like super glue. Eventually, she even pulled puppy eyes on you, which always seemed to work on your brother-and you admit, you could see why it was effective. Her brown eyes like melted chocolate had a way of attracting every atom in your body, making your breath shudder and gasp slightly as you felt your hands start to move out of your own will. Magic. Like magic.

Eventually, you'd lie into the bed with her, cuddling with her, and she'd tell you how you made a much better stuffed toy than anything else Theo had ever gifted her. And that makes you proud, happy in a way. Something wants to claw out of your chest and hold this above you, claw out of your chest and pull the girl in front of you closer, till the back of her head was flat on your chest and she curled, curled in. She looks so small, like this. Very different from the usual fiery menance that she was. Her lips pressed into a soft frown, rather than her usual bright grin, and her eyes closed, rather than staring into something in the far away distance, distracted. She feels soft. She feels as if she could melt into the sheets, and stay there forever. You find yourself brushing your finger over her hair, over her forehead, your eyes still trained on the back of her head. Her hair is tangled and messy, and you almost pray, you almost pray for more tangles so your fingers can soak into it for longer. They keep your fingers locked in for longer, until your knuckles and nails undo the locks, pick the key holes. You move in tiny circles, getting closer to the back of her head while she squirms a little.

Running your fingers through her hair feels like running your hands through the sand of the beaches, sometimes finding tangles like that of seashells on the beach. Dig a hole around them precisely, and then scoop them up. Part the tangles with your nails and undo them. They flow under your finger tips and palms like fabric. Her hair, her hair feels more like a huge sheet of cotton rather than it's individual threads. It feels continuous, never ending, together. Until it goes end, and it runs down her spine, where it snakes towards the start of her waist. There is something wrong, just wrong about Sophia like this. The Sophia you know isn't their quiet, isn't this soft, and is more of a sun than the one shining bright outside. And yet, Sophia turns around to face you, and your hands in her hair fall to your lap.

"Sleep, y/n. No wonder Theo's so much taller than you," ah. Of course you were mistaken. Everything is suddenly right again. This is Sophia, this is the Sophia that always has something to say and giggles so hard that it's probably the most replayed sound in your head.

You scoff, opening your mouth dramatically to look back at her, your hand hovering, fingers apart, over it. "Short? Look at you, Sophie, and you call me short?"

She simply gives you a simple eye-over, her eyes narrowing as if judging you, and you feel goosebumps racing up over your body. Why? You don't know.

"It's ok for me to be short, but you need to be taller! I want you to be as tall, no, taller than Theo!" She says it with a spring in her voice, not paying attention to the way your cheeks are starting to heat. Sophia's hands have subconsciously travelled to yours, and god, you've gripped it. You take her hands in your, and lace your fingers together, because that's how you've always done it. But what she says breaks you out of it, even just for a minute.

"Taller than Theo? Why? I thought that you liked taller boys, Sophie?" You smirk as you say that, referencing the fall out of the friend group. One simple incident caused it, and there was a reason for why Sophia felt so guilty about it. It was partially caused by her. Alex. The only reason you still remembered that name was because of the disaster that happened at the playground.

Alex, that stupid Alex, you clench your fists, the blonde of the previous friend group, had an obvious crush on Sophia. But clearly Sophia didn't want it, nor did she reciprocate his feelings. It was obvious though, he turned from a cocky jerk to something resembling a sleazy business man when Sophia was around, always offering to get her something, and finding ways to hang around. And also, the fact that his face would turn scarlet at the slightest mention of his name from her lips. It always pissed you off, seeing someone like him tag around her like a little lost puppy. He was an absolute jerk, always pushing over others at the playground, and you couldn't think of a worse match for the sunshine that was Sophia. He lurked around her like a shadow-like slender man, Sophia had compared him to, due to the fact that he towered over absolutely everyone. He was the height of some of the older middle schoolers, even though they were barely eleven.

Once your brother had caught wind of the situation, he'd confronted Alex. And Sophia and done nothing, simply standing frozen in the corner while the fight escalated into a full on brawl. She'd stood there, tears streaking her face, while she fiddled with her own fingers. Her feet wouldn't move, but then you were there. You were there, and you pulled her out of that mess, screaming at your brother and Alex that they were absolute pieces of shit, and that the person they were fighting over was scared. And maybe that snapped some kind of sense into both of them, as they paused and immediately ran over to hug Sophia, and comfort her. She'd slapped them both away and ran back to you, as she buried her face in your shoulder and cried, cried again. Your shirt was soaked afterwards, and you had a lesson later, but you let her stay there. Your arm felt frozen in place for hours after what, and you were surprised when her eyes and lips weren't imprinted in the shirt after she finally let go. Either way, you'd talked her into forgiving Theo, after he did some bribing with ice cream and allowing her to choose the next round of games they'd play, the next time they met up.

Sophia's cheeks were puffy and red afterwards, and she was cute. But you weren't going to say that, because she looked like she would break any moment. Like a doll, like a perfect tiny doll with black beads for eyes. She was pretty like one too, and maybe more. You didn't find a need to want to buy pretty dolls and dress them up in tiny scraps of fabric when there was a much prettier one with you, and she was human. Sometimes you're surprised she's not a doll. She seems too perfect, too much of a sun for this world. She seems like something that should, should be locked behind a glass case for preservation behind lock and key because she was simply too separate from this world. So she couldn't be touched, so she couldn't be hurt. Because someone like her never, never would have deserved that. She was the princess in all the movies, she would have fit every single fairytale involving them quite nicely. The world already had one sun, there was no need for another. And what was Sophia of not another one?

But Sophia is not a doll, and that is evident. She has slightly tanned skin, and when you zoom in, freckles, from being out in the sun. You've laid in the grass with her, while she looked at the clouds and they reflected in her eyes. But you never looked at them, even when they were just a tilt of a head away. You only ever saw them through her eyes, looking at her, and the little marks sprinkled on she face. While the dolls you once had had perfectly white hands and were cold to the touch, and would break a limb or two when tossed on the floor, she once again is not a doll.

Sophia's hands are not soft. They are rough, from months and months of gripping into the rope of the swings and from getting scrapes and splinters from the trees in the park. They are not soft, and yet you can run your fingers over them, and it feels as though you're touching something else entirely. The lines on her palms have almost blended in with the healed scrapes, and you can't even differentiate them anymore. It's as if she carries multiple lifelines on her palms now, all leading to different ends, before the stretch of her fingers. She'd pointed it out once, that the second set of lifelines she'd gotten from scrapes looked suspiciously like your own, the ones on your right hand. You remembered her racing across the room to tell you this while you were rushing some last minute book reports. You'd turned around, and she had shoved her palm in your face. You'd brushed her off, and told her to play with Theo. But she stood there, adamant, and you gave in. Afterwards, whenever you gripped her hand, you'd try to trace those very same lines, but they were covered under other lines now. Other lines, but never another matching someone else's perfectly, not even Theo's. That was your biggest regret. But you still wonder how she knew the exact lines on your palm. You'd never showed her, and you certainly never told her.

You'd joked that she now held your lifeline in her hands, your life in her palms. You expected her to laugh about it, and threaten to end yours then and there, like how she'd done it to Theo once when he tried to trace his own palm lines on Sophia's hands. But she doesn't. She was serious, her expression mirroring yours when you were often deep in thought. She said she'd protect it, and never let it end. It worried you at first, that expression. Because she couldn't be like you. But then it melted away into yet another smile, and she said that maybe she'd get it tattooed when she was older, just for the sake of keeping that inside joke alive. You had gone into a frantic rant then, telling Sophia it was a joke for a reason, and she'd laughed again. You wish that you'd remembered the original lines on Sophia's hands so you could get hers tattooed on yours.

Maybe all the lines on her hand are really lifelines, lifelines of the people she's enchanted. And you, you're buried at the very bottom, the first victim.

Perhaps you should've just not let Sophia lift a finger, and let all her scrapes heal, so you could find them. But then again, Sophia would never agree. She liked to do things herself, she was stubborn, very, very, stubborn. Perhaps that was why she never did forgive Alex after that, after he got into a fight with Theo. And it was rather funny, though pathetic, watching someone as tall as Alex trail after Sophia like a stalker, trying to apologise desperately as she avoided him at every step.

Sophia flusters when you reference that. That reference, because Alex was a giant. She flusters, and you give a small smile as your hands go to her hair again, tugging a few strands out of her face and towards you.

"That's different! He was a giant! But I want you to be tall-you need to be tall, because I...because I want you to be!" She's turning redder by the second, looking away from you. Your smile turns into a smirk, and you take on a teasing tone as you dive in for the kill.

"Oh, so you do like taller boys, huh?"

You're surprised she doesn't smack you across the face with how red she's getting. It almost rivals the levels of Alex, though he did set new records for you personally. You didn't even know someone could match that shade of colour pencil. If Theo wasn't so focused on fighting him, he'd be marvelling over it, and ask Alex to stay mad for longer so he could get a direct colour match of his skin. You leave her speechless, something you rarely do, and you like it. Her mouth moves, but nothing comes out, and she just stares at you, red and angry. Pouting even, and maybe her eyebrows would crease upwards in an attempt to look angry, but she just couldn't. There was one way Sophia could look angry when she pouted like that.

You gave in, and you remember waking up later in the evening, to find Sophia snuggled to your chest, and your head buried in her hair, where she smelled of your own shampoo. You didn't dare move, even when your arms was killing you, and your spine felt like it would fracture any moment due to the position you slept in. You pull the covers from your side and drape them over Sophia, even as tiny bumps rise on your skin.

You watch her like the sunrise until she wakes up, the ticking of the clocks on the wall, the beeping of the digital watch on her wrist, all fading into the background.

When she wakes up finally, when your mother calls you both down for dinner, you and Sophia both, she sleepily rubs her eyes and sits up, stretching like a cat. She mumbles quietly, far too quiet for Sophia. Her voice is slightly hoarse, and when she opens her mouth at first, nothing comes out. It's like she's still in a daze, and she only breaks out of it when her feet finally touch the floor from when she's sitting on the edge of the bed. You can smell spaghetti from the stairs, and you smile. Not you favourite, not Theo's favourite chicken pottage, but Sophia's favourite.

" Soph, I think you're mom's favourite, she made spaghetti-" you want to tease she again, but the words, just like Sophia's die before you can get them on your tongue. The light of the sun hits her from the window, sneaking in from every corner of the room and hitting the ends of her hair, her body, her eyes, and her shadows lies on the floor in front of her. You're shocked her body is not covered in jewels, because she seems to be shining. Sparkling, as if her skin is glass and mirrors and the light just knows the exact angles to hit. You feel as if glass has cut up your throat, and you're unable to breath. Breathtaking. A funny word for you, and you've always made fun of it because of how literal it is. But it is. You'd just never experienced one of those sights, until now. You feel strangled, suffocated, as the rays, the beams of light wrap around and curl around Sophia like ropes. They snake up her skin, her legs, and up to her neck. If you'd taken a picture then and there, you'd have it forever. But you don't. You simply watch as the light shatters onto Sophia, spilling onto her skin like liquid, and your hands fall to grip the railing. The light continues to spill from where it breaks on her bed, and it soaks, soaks into the sheets, the ground as the sun moves away, until the light is just on her hair and she's looking at you, finally out of that daze. That daze that you were in as well.

It is something you're both trapped in for a while, and you finally break. Earlier, when you wanted her to break from it, now you want the opposite. You wanted her to stay still, so you could sketch that image into your eyes, not your mind, so you could see it reflected whenever yours met hers.

"It's fine, because you're mine. You're my favourite, y/n." Those are the words that come out of her mouth when she breaks from the trance. It startles you more than you show, your feet suddenly almost tripping over the same step and your breath hitching. Then, that slips from your lips.

"Even more than Theo?" It comes out quieter than it should, because this shouldn't be important to you. You phrase it like a question, because it is. To you. Only now, that's it's spoken, do you realise how much you want it to be answered. You expect her to think for a moment, and you shift your gaze to her to watch her adorable thinking pout, but that serious look of yours comes on her face again.

"Obviously! I think I like your mom more than Theo, ugh, he's so stupid sometimes! Didn't he fight Alex?" She says it like a fact, like it was a question that never needed to be asked. As if it was a simple fact in her maths textbook. As if she knew, as if it was imprinted in her head like one of the laws of the world that everyone accepted-humans couldn't fly, gravity existed. She says it as if she's known it her whole life.

But you didn't.

Back at the doorstep, she flies in the moment the door even creaks open slightly, and yet she fits. Because she certainly hasn't sprouted a feet over a few days.

Someone gifted your brother a logic puzzle for you and your brother's joined birthday a few weeks ago, and it seemed like a scam at first-even you thought so. A box filled with paper grids, a five by five, then a six by six, all the way to a ten by ten. All that, and then three separate stamps. A instruction manual slipped out when you all flipped the box over, but besides that, nothing. Theo's face slipped into a disappointed look, and the other two boys had already lost interest the moment the paper grids were revealed. But you and Sophia stayed, you reading the instructions booklet while Sophia went through the paper grids and stamps. Oh. This type of game. Well, the boys wouldn't understand for sure. You turn around, but the three of them are gone. You can hear the sound of racing footsteps up the stairs-they've probably gone up to watch television. But Sophia stays, and her eyes light up when she realises you're here too.

Knights tour. A game with simple rules, and a simple concept. Fill up all the squares on the grid, the ending number differing, all with the moves of a knight. An L. Three spaces to the right or left, one down or up afterwards. You don't even manage to finish explaining the rules when she grabs one of the five by five grids, the first level, and a stamp. You give out a soft smile at the sight, and grab one yourself. You notice Sophia's opened the stamps incorrectly-she's going to have ink on her paper and dirty the table later. You make a note to pass a wet cloth to her later, to clean up her fingers. Starting at the grid, your mind scrambles for a while before making a few crosses to make the moves that would allow you to fill the squares. You hesitate to start stamping, but clearly Sophia is the opposite. Her fingers fly over the the paper immediately, as if without thinking, and she doesn't make any marks. They just fly, one to two and suddenly she's stamped all twenty five on the grid, make no mistake. You were a bit to grab her a new sheet of the five by five grid when you notice this. She's done it without error, and her hands are alread moving pass yours to get the six by six.

You pause, the paper in your hands falling to the floor. You'd messed up on yours and only managed to get to twenty before running out of potential links to stamp. And with prior planning, too. But Sophia just...does it. And she flies through the six by six too. She does them all, and within a span of minutes. You want to say it. You should, you've always praised her like this, and the words bubble up in your mind. You're a genius, soph. Come on, let's go show Theo, I bet he can't do it.

It is the first time you've felt so far from her. Because the girl, the girl that lets herself get hurt on the playground, the one that struggles to tie her own shoelaces, is a genius. A mathematical genius. When she looks back up at you, her fingers smudged with ink, you're speechless. She is in front of you, but then again, she is not.

She is not. Surely this problem wasn't meant for people your age? You've considered yourself quite smart, smarter than your brother at least, since you always ranked high in class. But this feels like a punch to the guy, straight into your stomach and you can feel it burn as it sprays up your throat. She is something else entirely, a girl with a body prettier than a doll's and a brain smarter, far smarter than a normal human's. You can almost feel the whiplash when she still struggles to get all the ink off her fingers. She acts so human. She has all of it-she's clumsy, she laughs, she cries, god, she feels. She feels. She is the most tender hearted, the softest person you've never met in your life, all the while being the most passionate. She would give up everything to save a random stray cat on the street and yet wouldn't care for herself even if she was bleeding on the ground. She gives far too much than she takes, and it scares, it scares you. Because you have to admit to yourself, you will not be the only one that gets to know Sophia like this. People will realise, they will realise that her laughter, her love is as much of a normality as it is for them to breathe, and it just comes to her.

They will hurt her, they will use her. They will add more lifelines onto her palms and cause her cheeks to be streaked with tears. The light, the tint of her laughter like the clinking of beads on glass, will dissolve into nothing. She might break down into porcelain fragments like those old, vintage dolls. It will be dark, maybe the shadows will do it. You've already seen it once, with Alex and Theo's fight. She will be eclipsed. Your sun will be eclipsed, and the sunflowers will wilt and die. Your neck will snap, and you'll crumble on the floor, like a sunflower. The heat in your palms and your hands and your cheeks, and the burning, stabbing pain of needles in your chest will melt and stain your skin.

This is the pain that needs to last, this needle -like sensation in your fingers, as if balancing on a bed of spikes. This is the pain, this is the pain that you wish to be forever, because it means she's here. This is the pain of the doorframe, slumping against the doorframe, feeling your fingers turn purple and your lips matching their shade.

You space out for the rest of that time. You only come back when she's on your doorstep, and you have to close the door. This time, you're the one that grabs her hand in ours, and you can see her look up in visible confusion. But no. Her hands are still rough, still as rough as weeks ago. She hasn't changed, but so much has changed. You can't look at her the same, even if she is the same.

She has the same smile, but has she always smiled that way? Maybe her eyes were narrower than usual today. Maybe the dimming lights of the kitchen hid another shade of her skin. The doorway feels like it's separating far more than you from her. It feels like closing the gate on something, locking something away, twisting the lock equivalent to thrusting the needles everywhere now, in your eyes and in your mind, deeper and deeper, until you bleed out while standing, holding the door knob.

But you should've known. She has always seen more fiction than reality. She is a rose without thorns, impossible, impossible, impossible. She is someone whose picture should be kept in a lockette and never let go. She is someone whose birthday date should be a password, she is someone whose name and initials should be burned into flesh. The wind should blow towards her direction, the curtains should draw them selves for her, and the very flavour of the universe should change itself for her tongue. Clocks should be retimed to every second of her breath.

You were never religious. But you fully believe it now. They follow religion because they believe in something else, something guiding them. She is not a Goddess, but she should be. Maybe there has always been something, something influencing you in some way. She is perhaps, one of those people that would become an angel. Maybe you've been living, playing with an angel. An angel that lived down the street, nine blocks away from yours, and yet still preferred to use the long bike path behind her house to get to yours.

She looks like one, too. Maybe that's what it was. Maybe she really is one. Maybe she'll go back to the sky tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Either way, you know. You don't want that to happen. But can you really rip an angel from the sky? You'd have to rip off her wings for that. Her wings. What, her talents? She has far too many to even begin to guess which ones could be her wings. Is it her hair? Is it in her eyes, is it in her mind? Is it her genius? Or maybe it's her voice, her laugh, god, the way that she teases you after you lose in a petty fight with her. Those are the best ones, even if you leave flustered afterwards. Her cheeky grin, her smug little smirk, and all the 'I told you so's, except she's still struggling to pronounce her 't's because of her recent loss of one of her side teeth. And even then, you remember. When she was sitting in the dentist's chair, blood in her mouth. She was still smiling, though her little fang was then gone. You still mourn it's loss, it make her look like a vampire. That's what she told you she wanted to be for Halloween last year, and she didn't even need fake teeth, her little fang sold the deal. You both went around as mini Dracula's and got so, so much candy from everyone. Maybe the candy was what caused the cavity in that fang, anyway. Huh. Maybe things did come back and go around. But she still smiled, she smiled that night when you both went to her house to dump out and count the candy, and she smiled even when the dentist pryed that tooth out of her mouth.

Her smile. Her lips are the perfect shade, right between pink and red, never a gap too far. You can trace the lines on her lips, run your fingers on the edges and back.

That is the second lesson you learn, when your foot stops the door and you hold back her hand. Angels do exist among humans. That is what you think of when she gasps when she realises you're pulling her back, and she looks at you. You are in the same positions you were the first time you introduced yourselves, with her asking your name with the constellations in her eyes, freezing on your doorstep with her laces untied. You are about to close the door, your hand on the doorknob. You are there, breathing hard, even when there's no reason to be. Maybe it is the same thing, from all these years ago. What comes around goes around. Because you force the words from your throat, from behind the door, just like she did on your doorstep. You choke them out, when it's dark outside and the only illumination is the kitchen lights, and she still looks. Dazzling. Stunning.

"You're coming back tomorrow, right? And the day after? And after?"

It is a stupid question. Of course she is. She always has, and always will. Maybe you just wanted to hear her voice again, maybe you blanked out. Maybe you just wanted to check something.

She looks at you, confused. "Yea? Of course, and we'll be playing tag in the playground with Theo, don't forget!"

She still has her laces undone, as if she's never learnt how to do them. She's going to trip if she doesn't tie them. She still lingers on the doorstep after you ask the question, the very same face that stared at you back when you first said her name. Sophia. Soph. Sophie. She has the same face, and maybe she hasn't grown at all. She still barely reaches the mailbox. It feels like deja vu, seeing this again. You've lived this before. This, the lights, the shoes, the clothes, the laces. Have you both changed at all?

"y/n, what's wrong? You look sick, you should ask Theo to check on you," she steps past the door again, and comes back inside, with her shoes still on. Then, as if out of habit, she kicks them off, and brings her hands to your forehead. She gasps. Loudly. "You're burning, y/n! You're sick! And you didn't tell me?"

Burning. You're sick, probably. And Sophia's hands are warm, they're hot, as usual. They always are. This should be uncomfortable for you, if you really are sick. And yet you want them to stay, you want the warmth of her hands on your already heated forehead. You see deliriously, and the lights are still positioned on her.

"Sleepover tonight? If you get sick today, you don't need to go school tomorrow-" that is all that comes out of your mouth. You don't even need her to tell you, because she's slamming the door shut immediately, and racing up the stairs to your room, your mild fever completely forgotten.

You glance at the door, at the lock, at her shoes now laying on the floor in front of you. Later, in bed with Sophia, when she's once again cuddled against your chest, you think again. You'll let her go later. Later. She can stay.

The cramp in your neck from Sophia lying there feels like you've been born with it, and the set of pink socks disappeared from your closet weeks back are on Sophia's feet. Your brother's best friend is stealing all your clothes.

Your brother's best friend lives more in his house than in her own.

You are walking down the school's hallways, getting your stuff, shoving it into your backpack hastily and about to rush home, when you see a familiar head of golden-brown curls that's splayed into a pony tail. Dani. She's rushing up to you, practically running in fact, and her face is red, completely red, matching the colour of your lip gloss. You instinctively pause, and wait for her to crash into you, putting one arm on your shoulder and the other one the lockers, all while her own bag is slowly slipping off her shoulder blades. She tries to speak, but then she doubles over again, trying to catch her breath. You almost laugh. Typical Dani behaviour, to act like this.

"What, cat got your tongue?" You smirk to her, all the while leaning against the lockers and looking down at her. You appreciate your growth spurt at these times-Dani is average height, but you are taller. You tower over her like this, and it also allows you to easily dodge her potential slaps and smacks at you. She's smoldering down there, and you just know it. Her eyebrows are probably creasing and she's most likely pissed off right now.

She hisses out a reply, all the while still trying to catch her breath. "I just say your brother, yes, Theo, beat the absolute shit out of someone. And honestly, remind me not to fuck with him. Ever. I think his name's Anthony or something...? The band kid? I'm not really sure-"

You don't let her finish, immediately rushing over. You should've known. There was the sound of a fight in the second floor hallways earlier, as you went down the stairs, but of course your brother had to be the cause. Why? He was usually a peacekeeper, and you thought that his petty fits and fights had been just a childhood occurrence. Your feet fly up the stairs again, your shoes skipping steps that nine year old you would have turned pale to the face at. You think your laces have come undone, but you couldn't really care less. You can hear Dani racing after you, her voice ringing in your ears to slow down and wait for her. She's not moving nearly as fast as you, probably because she's chosen to wear shoes with slight heels today to school. Of course she has, she's Dani. Always with the fashion over practicality. And you agreed too, of course. Your pierced ears and bracelet didn't do much to serve you except to hinder perhaps your writing speed, and your hair would get caught behind your piercings sometimes. But still, you would never give up your running speed and ability.

Over the last five years, you've taken up sports, a wild difference from where you were back when you were nine, when you'd barely leave the house-until the angel went to your doorstep, of course. You'd joined hockey in middle school, and you still play it now. Theo also decided to join hockey, though you're not sure whether it's because he's really interested in the game, or if it's to watch you. You're trying to be kind with your words, but...he wasn't exactly the best hockey player, constantly missing the goals and hitting the puck elsewhere. Your hair has also grown out, and you haven't cut it. It'll be around where your angel's hair was a few years back, trailing down to your waist. An absolute nightmare to wash and style, but perfectly worth it because Sophia loved it. She loved to bury her face in it, like how you liked to run your hands through her hair years ago. She cuts her hair every few months, however, leaving it around halfway down her back. But her hair is still black silk while yours is wavy and always tangled. Curse your wavy hair, of once. You've always liked Sophia's straight hair. That was one of the things you bonded with Dani over, having curly and wavy hair.

Five years. Sophia and Theo had spent those five years close together, learning to bike together, doing mostly everything together, and Sophia pulling you out occasionally to join. Your brother's best friend, Sophia, your angel. Even after all these years, she still holds your hand tight whenever the two of you are together. Sadly, while you got a growth spurt, she did not. She's grown to a fairly average height once again, like Dani, but she still quivers beneath you. But you like it, since you can lean your head on her shoulder, rest your chin on the top of her head, and lean down to whisper into her ear and watch, watch her flush as she's startled by the sudden breath on her neck. The fact that she still hates eating her carrots remains, and your conversations on the doorstep remain. And the lights still obey her, and she is still. Stunning. Even more so, now. Beforehand, some of the clothes she wore were baggy and crumpled around the edges, the ends. But now she grew into them. Her eyes, her eyes were perhaps always the point of her for you. The swirls got bigger, as if focusing a camera, and there looked like there were little orbs of black and brown swimming about. She's grown taller, she's gotten prettier, god, as if she could have gotten any prettier. You could go on and on about it. It's as if her skin was made from jewels, from the sun itself. It's as if her voice was specifically chosen for her soul, you can't think of anything better. Whenever she came to you while your headphones were on, it was as if the music blasting in your ears dimmed down just to hear her speak.

When Sophia was younger, she was pretty. You still remember the thing with Alex, which was the start of your brother's streak of childhood fights, which always resulted in Sophia ending up in your room, and Mom cooking spaghetti afterwards. She was pretty, the kind you'd just accept because it was true. Like a pretty flower in a field. Pretty, you'd acknowledge it.

Maybe she has changed, after all. Your angel is now the kind of pretty, no, gorgeous, that makes you pause mid-sentence. You didn't forget what you were saying, no, it just faded into the background, it's importance dying because she was there. Nothing felt as important as looking at her. The kind of flower always picked to make flowers crowns, the flowers that would be picked and adorned in a bouquet.

But there is one more thing. There is one more change.

Dani finally makes it up the stairs, panting yet again. If it wasn't serious, you'd joke about her not being able to get a break. But you don't, because the sight that greets you is your brother, slumped against the lockers, bleeding from one nostril, but a crazy grin on his face and glint in his eyes. The flickering light in the hallway-the school would never, never get them fixed-shines off his eyes and lips, and you can see the red from his split lip. His eyes hold no pain in them, and you...You can tell he's won the fight, and he's gotten quite a few scrapes, but that's not what makes you freeze in place. Of course it's not, you've seen him through much, much worse than this. This fight is pathetic almost, and Theo would probably suffer no lasting bruises or scars if treated properly.

No, the thing that freezes you-as if the spotlight stopped on both of them, the light cascading down to trickle down both of their skins and soak into their growing shadows-It's the girl hovering over him.

Sophia, your angel. Suddenly, you're kind of reminded of the one last thing that changed. It's not about Sophia. It's about your brother, Theo. Theo is bleeding, the red trailing down from not just his nose now-you notice-but also the side of his head, his ear, and god, it's running down the side of his head. But he doesn't care about that. Maybe that's one thing he and Sophia have shared since young. They have always, always been reckless and impulsive. Like one of those domestic Huskies, going after a stick the moment it was thrown, no matter what. He's bleeding, but he's looking up at Sophia, and he's grinning. But that's not it. No, that's not it.

Sophia's kneeling on the ground in front of him, a concerned expression on her face, and you just know she's about to cry. Her eyes are getting red-rimmed again, and oh, her brown, chocolate eyes are glistening again. Her hands are on the ground next to her, as if she doesn't know what to do. Her fingers thrum on the ground, the rhythm of your heart beat. Theo's hands are on her face, already wiping at her eyes, getting blood streaked on her face. She looks like a vampire now, the blood on her cheeks and at the side of her lips. If she still had that fang from when she was a kid, she would have absolutely sold the look. She looks like she's been kissed by one. Theo's grin grows wider when Sophia slaps him on the face lightly and collapses onto his shoulder. There's a slight sobbing sound, and you just know-your heart clenchs around nothing but itself, but you spot it. The change. Theo's eyebrows crease, and there's goosebumps on his arms. And he hugs her closer, his hands digging into her skin, while she picked up her head from his shoulder and checked to make sure he was ok.

The change. Your twin brother has fallen hopelessly for his best friend.

It is simple. It is expected. They have been friends forever, and she's stuck by him even when everyone else left. All the friends in the group, all slowly replaced as he grew up, and his interests changed. And yet, the girl that lived nine blocks down the street always came back to your doorstep. He knows all her favourites and she knows all his dislikes. They are the living trope itself, and they match. They are both sunshine in the hallways, both with the matching grins that could either be pure happiness or plotting. something. They spend all their time together, and all of their classes are together, as if fate itself wanted to bring them together. Theo, at the arcade with her, gives her everything he wins at the claw machine-something he's an absolute ace at. Sophia, on the other hand, not so much-and yet, she'd always walk out with an armful of plushies, and red and happy in the face. Theo, nothing, but a soft smile as he gazed at her. He looks at her softly, like he's admiring a flower. A small one, and he holds her face like she's a dandelion, gentle and careful so she doesn't flow away. So not even a single strand on her head gets misplaced, so that not even a single gust of wind can send shivers down her spine. So that no one can hurt her. He looks at her like she's looking in a mirror, like he's found someone exactly like him, and he's right.

They share interests. They share the same smile, they share inside jokes, where if you even mention it to one of them the other will start laughing within seconds. It's like they have telepathy. They think almost in sync, and they even finish each other's sentences. That one, in particular, has a way for freaking everyone but them out. Especially when either of them would just start voicing out a random thought, and the other's voice would travel from another room and finish it for them. Somehow, it never unsettled them, the strange concept of sharing the same thoughts. Maybe it was because they were around each other so long, maybe because they're too used to it. They share traits of the sun, both of them. Warm, warm hands and body, and the kindest people you'd ever meet. You imagine it must be like finding someone exactly in the same orbit as you, and Theo's extremely lucky for having his for so long. Perhaps Sophia is too, for finding him. But you acknowledge it. Some people are just loved. Some people are angels, and some people are just humans.

Theo has grown. It would make sense, you tell yourself. He's tall now, too, but perhaps Sophia's wishes a few years back at some impact on your height. You're around his height, actually, no-perfectly matched. You are the same height, without the shoes, and without counting that one strand of hair that always insists on standing upright and staying there on Theo's head. Soph joked that it was like an antenna, like one on those satellite phones, or those old televisions that would need two of them. But still, that particular strand of hair added at least two inches to his height if counted. Still, without it, you both are the same height. And you hope it stays that way.

Theo is not in the same classes as you, sharing all of them with Sophia. From what your hear, the two of them are near the top of the class ranks all the time, despite them definitely fooling around and doing everything but playing attention in class. Of course, you'd expect it from Sophia. You've known since in the basement, since Theo's present, since the time you first realised and started realising, she was an angel. Sophia's a genius, and she probably has no problem coping with it at all. In fact, you're surprised she's not higher on the class rankings list. Maybe because conduct plays into it. It's definitely the conduct, you've seen Sophia's grades. Sophia clearly had no interest in any of her subjects, besides maybe chemistry, and Theo is no different, but his focus being on mathematics. Both science and math respectively, very different from your interests in English literature and history studies. Humanities, that's it for you.

Theo...he's never been the best student, has he? Though, you've never been in the same class as him to judge. The schools have always separated you too, most likely due to the fact that you were twins, to prevent any conflicts-you never really understood, either. You briefly recall Theo failing chemistry in the past, and suddenly you're riddled with greater suspicion. No way Theo's a top rank in class without doing something. Cheating? No, that's not in Theo's nature-no matter how desperate he is, he'd never resort to that. Theo has always had his own unwavering sense of justice, and you've joked that he should've become a lawyer. It shows. Maybe he'd been born with it. Though, you do agree that his idea of justice was flawed at times-he got into multiple fights during middle school due to this, due to people picking on Sophia for god knows what. Now you think of it, you probably would have thrown hands too, if you found out that people were bullying Sophia, of all people.

Sophia continues running her hands on Theo's face, checking for any scrapes. You can't see when face-its covered by her mass of hair, but Theo's expression gives it away. And then, Sophia slaps him. Hard, on the face, twice. You can almost hear the sound rebound throughout the empty hallways, ringing off all the metal lockers. Sophia will have a newly added line to her already laced palms. Theo will have a new scar added to his face, adorning his other scrapes further, like building chain mail armor.

And Theo still smiles. And you two are too similar, then and there. You have that smile, too. Maybe that's how everyone looks like when Sophia's with them. Because that's how you look, too. She's not real, is she? The difference is like gravel wrapped in silk. Something curls up from your toes, travelling up your spine to the depths of your eyes. You can see the swirls of Sophia's eyes sprinkled within the golden freckles of Theo's. They compliment each other. It's a mix of different, different colours, all splashed together. A bouquet of hyacinths and lilies. A variety of chocolate candies. There is no overlap in their eyes. It is like when the seas meet. Similar, but completely different. And they do not clash. You can pick out each of their individual traits in them with surgical precision. You can connect the dots in them with thread, sewing them up like a doctor would a wound, and still, their freckles and swirls would not get caught in either path. It is as if her swirls fit perfectly in every spot his golden freckles are not in, filling in the blank brown canvas that is their eyes. It is like painting the clouds, the meteors, and the stars in the sky. Theo's eyes contain stars. Her eyes contain everything but. They match, they go together like the sun and the sky. Always there, never questioned.

When you look at Sophia, the swirls in your eyes match. They merge into the other, and a mix of flowers in a bouquet will always be prepared over a singular rose. Your blue clashes with her brown incessantly, and you never see your eyes. Brown with blue is always brown, and your colours melt together, your blue dirtying her shade. Her, your angel, has always overshadowed your own eyes. And you don't mind. Her brown is not a shadow. That is the best way you can put it. It does not shadow anything, it lights them up. She is the hot white sun on a black canvas, amber through glass. When you look at her eyes, you've never wanted to see your own. You want it to be a one-sided mirror, just looking at the brown, the brown feather like eyes. You hope that when she looks at yours, she only sees herself. She doesn't need to see you. Your eyes, you wish for your eyes to just be a mirror for her own. Look at you, and see only herself. Possess you, and feel her own skin beneath your palms. Possess you, and look at herself, look at an angel from a human's point of view. There is no point looking into the dull blue of your eyes if her sky is right above her. There is no point for the bark brown of her eyes, the tree to reach towards the false sky of your eyes if the true one is above her. You want the swirls in her eyes to turn into clouds. They cannot fizzle into nothing at all.

She has said your eyes are like the sea. Maybe then the swirls in your eyes would be the seafoam as the waves hit the shore. As the low tides and the high tides went about the schedule of the moon. But the swirls in her eyes are made for the clouds. She is meant to be above, she cannot cycle with you on the ground. The sky and the sea are the furthest apart. Mirror. Yes, the sea mirrored the colour of the skies. Yes, you would be her mirror, her blank slate, her grounding. You would swallow her up and keep her afloat if she ever fell. Stay right below her, always.

What else was Sophia? Something that made everything better. Whipped cream on hot chocolate. Melted chocolate to dip strawberries in. The cool gust of wind on a summer day. Sophia would like all of those. She would like all of those.

You think her laughter to your inner thoughts would have made them better, too.

"Fucking dumbass-Theo, why would you do that? I told you, I could've done it-" Sophia is still hovering above him, her hands now grabbing his chin to force him to turn his head-and expose the bleeding cut on the side of it. You can see her face clearly now, Theo having brushed that lock of hair to behind her ear. She is crying, like a flower wilting. Every tear, and she loses a small petal. She curls up like a withered one, bending into herself.

"I'm alright, can't you tell?" Theo flashes her a pathetic grin that just earns him a fierce glare. "Besides, he was being a jerk. He's the one in middle school, right? That one...can't really remember the name, exactly. I think you used to call him Pinocchio because of his nose."

Theo is not exactly helping his case. He's already been slapped twice. But he continues anyway, your twin brother, always digging his own grave. "If you think of it like that, I was doing him a service, giving him free plastic surgery. I shrunk his nose with that punch, think of how much it would've caused to get a surgeon to do that-"

Soph giggles. Her eyes scrunch up again, and even though her lashes are still laced with tears, it comes out. It slips through the curtains, the window blinds like sunlight. Oh. Maybe Theo wouldn't end up with an early death. "I didn't call him that because of the nose, and you know it-I called him that because he was always bragging about his dad owing some sort of huge company, and it was clear he was all bullshit." The words somehow manage to make their way through her laughter.

Something slips through your own blinds and stings the edges of your fingertips. It's poison. You can feel Dani put her hand on your shoulder. She glances at you, then pointedly to Sophia and Theo, before putting her hands to the side of her face and announcing loudly, "Ah, young love. When I was your age-"

Just by looking at Sophia's face, which has snapped up from Theo's right to yours, you can tell she's about to argue. She's flushing pink. The very cute pink of the socks that you know Sophia still keeps, the ones that she stole from you, even if she can't fit into them anymore. Sophia snaps, retorting back.

"We're literally the same age, Dani." She says it in a deadpan tone, but you can see her slightly shifting away from Theo, as if just realising her position. She's almost right on top of him, slumped against the lockers.

"Soph, you barely made the year. December 31st, remember? You were about to be a whole year younger than us." You find yourself joining the argument, and you regret it immediately, when Sophia's gaze shifts from Dani to you, and she's fuming and red and looking like she's about to slap you too.

"Still made the year, didn't she? Though, it would make sense if she was a year younger. Sophie is quite a bit shorter, isn't she?" That's your brother's line. A dangerous move, given that he's still right next to Soph. And you predict correctly, because he gets another slap. You should start keeping a counter.

Sophia, sensing that she can't win the argument against Theo's point, shifts her focus to attack someone else. "Isn't Dani literally shorter than me? And she's older too,"

Dani makes an affronted gasp, putting one hand to her heart and the other to her forehead, flicking her palm outwards to feign a dramatic gasp. "Your words pain me, dear princess. I sincerely apologise for all my actions and their dearest consequences,"

Princess. It slips from Dani's lips at first, but it comes back for everyone. Princess.

"Oh dearest princess, kindly forgive me, give me your mercy, I was merely jesting about your height," Theo comments again. Sophia seems to have completely forgotten about what she was mad about before, now wringing her hands and her gaze shifting between all three of you. Sensing the opportunity to save your brother from more of Sophia's attacks, you make your way to her, gingerly getting on one knee like a knight. "My dear princess, would you please allow me the honour of taking your hand to bear the burden of you standing up? My dearest graces."

Sophia is a extremely fun person to tease, everyone knows this. She often loses track of the argument once ganged up on, and she has no further retorts. She just stands there, slowly getting more flustered and wide eyed as the teasings keep going on. She is also a very cute person to tease, acting like a lost puppy. Now, she just keeps getting redder. You take her hand in yours, guiding your princess to stand up and not over Theo. Sophia follows your lead in her daze, standing up too, and moving over to the side. Once you are far enough away, you bend down again, so that you are grovelling on the ground, kneeling before her. With her hand still in yours, you bring your lips to brush over her knuckles, the final stroke on a masterpiece. Your lips linger longer than they should, leaving in the form of a crescent moon when she frantically yanks her hand away from you and stumbles back.

"You-!"

Her cheeks are flushed, and you know it. But you continue as though nothing happened, keeping your gaze to the floor. You hide your smirk from her to prevent yourself from being smacked. She's cute, she's so much like a puppy when she's flustered. She almost recoils completely, and if you look up you know, you just know you'll be hit in the face-probably on the forehead-with her hand.

"Are you alright, princess?" You whisper to the air, and sure enough, you're hit on the head. You laugh, you laugh, as she smacks your chest with her hands continuously, and then buries her head in it in pure embarrassment. A lost, flustered puppy.

Sophia's pulse races when you leave. It races, as if competing with the speed her thoughts are moving in her head. You don't notice her holding the hand you've kissed to her chest, holding it tight afterwards, her eyes sparkling, pressing the hand, the knuckles to her own lips. You don't notice her fumbling to tie her laces with one hand afterwards, still holding her knuckles to the air. Ànd you definitely don't notice her tracing out the shape of your lips on the back of her hand later, moving in lines, pressing her own once again to fit in its mold.

It is evening by the time Sophia gives up trying to recreate the feeling of your lips on her knuckles. Feathers, like a tickle. Yet it sends spikes up her nerves and stops the air entering her own lungs. You shouldn't be able to control her biology like this. It is her body, and yet a simple touch sends everything, everything she has into overdrive. Your lips are much rougher than every other part of your body, even if you use lip gloss. They travelled like glass shattering on the pavement, not like rain hitting the windows. But it feels more real, more rough. Everything you do is so distinctively you, she can feel it. Everything is slightly rough around the edges, as if hastily added, and yet fits just so well, like the slotting of a ring around a finger.

Your lips are the mirror to your voice. Both slightly rough, despite everything she knows you've done to change it. When you were kids, your voice had a slightly hoarse tone to it-everyone, everyone told you that you'd grow out of it, but the opposite happened. Sophia adores your deep voice. Sandalwood, sandpaper, it is the motion of your fingernails running through her hair, scratching her scalp. She can feel it, like brushing against a brick wall, the concrete and lumps coming up beneath her fingertips. Parts of you falling with her. She collects those, molds them into something, something resembling you in her head, either your touch or your voice, but nothing matters because one grain of sand is nothing to a beach. Your voice. Do you know? Every song she's ever liked has been because you sang it for her, that one night when Theo was in the hospital from a fight, trying desperately to comfort her. You sang your lungs out that night, needing to take lozenges after. She bets that ever song you'll ever sing would be her favourite.

Biology. It is human biology that the people flushes when embarrassed or panicked, but then what makes you? She becomes flustered, her eyes shift nervously and her lip quivers faintly whenever you are around, even when she's feeling none of the above. You defy science, the very matter of this world. She cannot understand you because no one has. There is no way for her to know how to act around you, because nothing, nothing explains why she acts the way she does towards you. Chemistry. This is why chemistry is the better science, she reasons. Just chemicals and reactions and calculations. No need to worry about why her hands instinctively curl up against yours whenever you even slightly brush her hands when you walk past, why her cheeks turn pink whenever you call her anything but her name, why your voice is the closest thing to sunlight in her opinion. It shines, she knows. She can pick you out from a crowd of a hundred, a thousand. Just by your voice. It is hollow at the right areas and thick and windy around others. It is like a conch shell on the beach, that's what she's always liked to compare you too, especially because she's always thought of your eyes as the sea.

It is unexplainable by human biology why she is so breathless at your voice, and why she still keeps the very same socks you gave her years ago, even if she's outgrown them. And she is not a hoarder by any means. People tend to keep things that comfort them, make them feel safe. Sophia doesn't agree with this. If anything, you keep her on edge. You tease and flustered her constantly, somehow always there when she messes up even slightly to quip at her and then offer her a hand, and somehow always there whenever she's thinking about you. Still, if she were to keep something that comforted her the most, she wouldn't have picked your sock. She'd have taken your whole human being and kept you next to her. God, but the way you'd talk about yourself sometimes. As if you were the rain tormenting people's nights and the chills on winter days.

She'd give up the umbrellas if you were the rain, let it kiss her skin and her eyes and her mouth, her lips, as you fell. She'd be jealous, jealous of the ground and the flowers and the grass, because they'd soaked up more of you than she could in her own skin. Jealous of the trees, because their roots seeped deep into the soil and had more of you than she ever could. She'd be mad at the sun, for taking you, her rain away. She doesn't understand you sometimes, when you say she's the sun. She doesn't want to be the sun. Burning everyone at even their slightest touch sounds like nightmare of all sorts. And yet, somehow she doesn't mind that you are.

You could be her sun, and she could be your sunflower. She'd face you, she knows it, and she'd miss you and spite at the moon for taking you away at night. She'd wish for it to be summer forever so she could see you for longer. You would be her sun, and she would live, live just for you, to see you in the morning and cry for you in the night. She will, forever, believe that you are perhaps the best thing the world has given her. Her life changes with you, she knows it. Everytime you open the door for her, everytime she keeps through the doorframe, everything had changed. The positions of the shoes have switched, the clock hands have struck a different time, but you have stood there, exactly twenty degrees to the left, holding the door knob with your right hand, your left hand reaching out towards her. You are the same, and too cannot change, because you'd leave. You, of all people, can't leave her.

Her world will plunge into the darkness of an eclipse. Her bones will brittle, her spine will eat into her own flesh and her eyes will hollow into nothing but cherry pits. But even then, she would not beg you to save her. That would destroy her. Sit in the corner and watch, watch from the windowsill of your two-storey house. Dying is nothing but devotion. Losing a few petals due to lack of you, just a few petals, is nothing.

You should be trapped in a hourglass, so she can spin you around and keep your in rotation, her rotation. Unchanging. She thinks that if your smile even tilted one degree to the north, it wouldn't be the same. Your smile, god, your smile. If someone asked her to draw out happiness-those stupid activities they would make her do in middle school, she'd probably have traced out the shape of your smile. No matter what, she'd like to keep it on your face. It is her favourite expression from you.

Unchanging, huh? Your features never changed. You just grew taller and your hair grew wavy. Extremely wavy. She adores the swirls in your eyes, matching with her own. She feels like she's plucked a piece of you into her own. She always has a part of you with her. Do you know? She always has something of yours with her. She knows the exact words you say when you close the door after she leaves your house, she knows the exact rhythm of which your feet fly down the stairs whenever your mom shouts out that she's made any sort of dessert. She knows the exact shade, the exact way your eyes light up like fireworks whenever you see a high grade on an assignment you expected to flunk. You are in everything she sees.

Sophia's favourite part of herself is her eyes. Because of you. Everything is for you, of course. And she feels pathetic, she is pathetic. She is always by your side and yet she doesn't dare speak a word. You have a way of creeping into her heart like a weed, moving faster than the wind blows. You've compared her to a dandelion. But you move in her heart, through her blood as fast as the seeds scatter. The weeds sprout, they pop up across her body, covering her eyes and her mouth and her thighs, and she wants the stems to wrap around her heart like a parasite. She wants to be able to give to you, so you can take from her. You never take from her. If anything, you have always given her everything. More than that. You've given her things she didn't even know she needed, like a cool towel on a warm day, and a pack of candy on the way to the doctor. You, yourself, when she opened that door and saw your matching eyes. Something she didn't even know she needed.

There is nothing she can do to name you. You have always been that girl. That girl, who pulled her into the hiding spot for the hide and seek game. That girl, who always seemed quiet, until something mechanical was mentioned, and then she'd light up, and it was like Sophia could see imaginary ears sprout on the top of your head. Y/n, that's when she learns your name. And then, that girl changes to y/n. And over the years, it changes to more. Y/n to Sol, for the sun. Y/n, to Dracula the second, for Halloween. She has called you, so, so many things. A piece of shit, a dumbass, a 'moderate disgrace to society'. A large majority of them being teases and insults. And yet, you have only called her gentle things. Sophia, Sophie, Soph, and then, your princess.

She thinks the closest thing she's ever called you to that is puyo, because of the swirls in both your eyes. Really, she's a horrible person for that. All the more to show that you've always given and never took. She knows, though, she knows exactly what you'll say, and it brings another flush to her cheeks.

It's because your one word is worth more than hundreds of mine, soph.

You, she decides, are too perfect. You are akin to-no, more. More than the male leads in movies and TV shows. More than the princesses in them. It is as if you were created by mirrors, judging and sculpting you, everyone's best trait in one. A marble statue, perfectly carved. You are the idiot that stands below windows to serenade someone, to get them flowers even if it's a downpour. You are the kind of idiot to cook meals for someone, even when they're sick. You are the kind of idiot that takes every insult, flashes a grin and shrugs it off-and yet, she feels like she's lost.

You know. The kind of idiot that gives up their heart for the princess even if they know they don't stand a chance to the prince in those movies, and god, she hates those movies. Maybe it's because she sees you in them, or maybe it's because she's just too soft hearted to stand the sight of someone being left alone. Left alone and accepting it.

You know? You know. You've always said she was too soft hearted for her own good. But that's no problem if you just treated her softly. Like you. You, with your warm touch, you with your free pick-ups after school, you with allowing her to crash in your own room unprecedented just because she doesn't want to be alone at night. Letting her cry on your shoulder whenever she met even the most minor set back. Not scolding-not even a warning when she ended up ruining a surprise you we're planning for Theo. Soft? You, you're soft. She was never the soft one.

Do you know that? You're the soft hearted one. Oh. You have always been too much of the sun. Resembling the sun? God. You might as well have been another one. Wasn't there a myth about seven suns in the sky, with an Archer having to shoot down all six before leaving just one? Well clearly, they forgot to shoot down the second last one.

She's going to get sunburnt.

Out of all the things Sophia expects to see when watching the school's latest hockey match, this is not on the list. By far. Oh god. She did not know the hockey players played in outfits like...that. Not that she minds, of course. Far from that. Besides, it confirms her suspicions that Theo is built like an absolute twig. He has not a single ounce of muscle on his body. If anything, he is the small tree in his own back yard, the one that they always rush out to check aftestorm-though somehow it does not collapse. The shirt looks baggy on him, but Sophia already bets it was the smallest size they'd offer. Theo might be tall, but Sophia knew better. He was ninety percent leg and ten percent upper. Skating across the rink, Theo slid the puck to another player-a blonde one, nearing the goal. Sophia snuggled deeper into her sweater, her eyes tracing Theo as he continued to lurk around the area nearing the scoring zone. The blonde passed again, though Sophia can't help but question why-he was so, so close to the goal. Perhaps he just chickened out over the pressure of scoring.

Oh, and he does indeed. His pass goes haywire, hitting the walls of the rink, and Sophia almost rolls her eyes, fully expecting the team they're playing against to get the puck. Her eyes follow the puck, dead set on it, and watches to see what the home team will do. But it doesn't, and Sophia has to blink to understand what she just saw. What...?

Someone saved the puck, just by an inch, from going to the other team. By a feather, like the gods were on their side. She feels a surge, suddenly far more interested in the game than she was minutes ago. You've saved the puck, you, who was positioned nowhere near it. If she had an eye tracker on, it'd be constantly pinned on you. You move faster, skating around the opposing team members in a loop, leaving them slightly dazed before they snap out of it and start chasing after you-but it's too late, and even they realise that-they stop once you enter scoring radius, and you swing your hockey stick in a perfect loop, sending the puck into the goal. The whole rink, no, half the rink, the ones all wearing your school logo, cheer loudly. It's deafening, and Sophia almost wants to plug her ears. She can't, of course, because she's the one cheering the loudest. There is a big smile on her face, and she thinks this is the happiest she has felt in weeks.

You are there, still panting and slightly hunched over your hockey stick. Your team mates start huddling towards you, giving you high-fives and whooping. Three to one so far, and not even halftime. Before you regroup and go back to your positions, there is a slight moment. That moment is all Sophia needs to be reminded of why you've always thought you were like the princes in the movies.

You pull up your shirt lightly, tugging on it to wipe the sweat off your chin. Your eyes are narrow, as if studying the stadium. Oh god. Oh. Sophia can see it from where she's sitting, the very front row. You must've accidentally switched your shirt with Theo by accident, because it cannot be that short on purpose. It must be made illegal. Tugging up your shirt, even slightly, has revealed your skin underneath. Sophia knew Theo was lean, but she did not know you were the exact opposite. She could run her fingers down the valley of your abs, the toned muscles contrasting with the fabric barely covering more above. She wants to trace it, as you lay down on the bed, with eye hovering above, she wants to run her tongue down and taste you right now. God, she wants to. She wants to scrape her teeth against your body and leave little marks along those lines, she wants to rub both their palms against them and feel. Your hair is splayed on either side of your face, tied back into a high ponytail-and yet, some locks have escaped and fallen to the sides of your face, covering your ear piercings. The locks framing your face stick to it, stick to your skin as you sweat and pant, your tongue running across the rim of your lips as you decide where to position yourself next. It rims the red of your lips, exposes your teeth. She wants to push away those locks of hair, she wants to press her nails into your skin. All of her thoughts ram through her brain, all suddenly on caps lock, screaming, hollering at her.

Her collarbone, her whole neck and up to her ears feels tingly. Even the slightest brush of fabric from her own cotton shirt, and the jacket you gave her to wear beforehand-'it's cold, you said'-triggers it. It is suddenly too itchy and not sticky and god, why is it stuck to her skin like that? Everything is too tight suddenly, and it's all because of your goddamn lips. She needs to cool down, and she wrings her hands in her lap. She should look away, but she can't. Her vision is locked on you, even when her brain swims and threatens to overheat. She thinks her lungs are failing her, she can't breathe. The air in the rink has suddenly become thicker and misty and five whole degrees higher. She feels like she's in a sauna. Your messy hair, the sweat dripping from your forehead, the blood on your leg from a previously bad swing from an opposing player...your teeth still rim your lips, now on the bottom lip, and she knows. She knows it's a habit. And she also supposes it must be God's hobby to play little tricks on her like this and make you this-this...

Is there even a word to describe what she wants to say right now? Your tongue rims it, your teeth too, and she squirms silently in her seat. All too suddenly, she can feel your hot breath, your warm breath on her shoulder, closing in on her neck, her mouth getting closer. It goes down, sucks down, and she muffles a little moan of want-oh, and your lips continue sucking, your tongue playing with her skin, dotting it with your taste and mixing it with her scent. You let go far too fast, and she almost-she almost begs, she almost whines, she almost reaches for your hands to pull you back down, for the warmth of your lips to linger down her spine, but then she feels your teeth. Your teeth, clamp down on the area you've kissed with the inside of your mouth, and bite. Maybe vampires do exist after all. Didn't people in the olden tales describe them as fascinating, and their bite on suction for blood an exhilarating experience? To be fair, others must've written about how horrific that must've been, to have had their own blood, their own product of their soul sucked out of them. Sophia agrees wholeheartedly with the latter. You bite, hard enough, hard enough to pierce through her flesh and draw blood, and she feels her knuckles curl, her body shrink inwards on itself. She can feel the sound unfurling in her throat, another pathetic whine because god, it feels so, so good. Your tongue feels like drizzling honey on her skin, and your scent is so dizzying. Your teeth leave that spot on her skin, training downwards, downwards onto another spot, as if following her pulse. It skyrockets again, when your teeth press down even slightly, the pressure doing things to her that she can't even see. Her eyes are watering now, half-lidded, her head falling onto your shoulder. You go down again, fully, and she just knows, she just knows there's blood. When it finally sets in, your mouth lingers over the wound, hot on it, until your tongue slides over it. She lets out a little 'ah-!", a panicked gasp before the feeling sets in again, and then it's quickly replaced by another slightly muffled moan.

Your lips are replaced by your hands, and they roam down her neck, sketch out her collarbones, search her face, your fingers pinching her lips between them. Your fingers feel like snowflakes, slowly landing and building up on her skin. She wants to collect your finger prints from your fingers on her cheek like how the snow collects footprints from boots. They circle, they circle her eyelids before her lips come back and press themselves against her forehead. Her eyes open wide, and she lets out yet another gasp. The pretty pink flush spreads across her face again, like a ribbon, wrapping around her canvas and her ears, where she still wears those earrings that you got her for her fourteen birthday. The ribbon, the ribbon goes around her throat and around her hands and around her legs, and she doesn't move. She sits still, as if tied up by just your presence of lips alone. Her breaths come between jumps now, skipping to the rhythm of every beat your heart misses. For every empty spike that yours does not. On her forehead, you leave fluttering kisses. Teasing, never fully there. The brush of wings across her eyebrows, a stroke of a feather across her eyelids. Her breath hitches, cheeks scrunching up with every teasing kiss, and she just knows-you have a smirk they could rival the Cheshire cat at that moment.

Lips move down, they move underground. It starts with one on the very tip of her nose, while her eyes are still fixed on the flexing of your neck muscles. Her vision locks on one of the sweat droplets making it's way down from the side of your head, all the way down to the hollowness of your neck. It traces the muscle lines, eventually slipping between the ends of the fabric, travelling down your body. Another movement, goosebumps jumping on her arms. Another movement, when you breathe out again, on her ear. Another movement, and she feels your fingers lace with hers and wrap around her wrists. You are warm, but you are not this warm. She is really touching the sun. She feels scorched. It is too, too warm.

The lights in the rink suddenly seem brighter than they should. Everything is increased-everything from the sound of the crowd to the sound of your breathing. Another small moan, and it disrupts the rhythm of your hearts. Because you're still hovering over her, and god, does she like that. The lights somehow blending both your shadows into one monstrous, large being. Your fingers still snake around her wrists, as if tracking her pulse and purposely plotting how to make it spike.

Your lips don't leave her face, proceeding to hover around your cheeks while your hands drop hers to her lap, going up to her neck to pull you both closer. When she looks at you, everything overlaps. She can see herself in your eyes, she can see everything align as if measured by a master craftsmen. She has never believed in anything being a perfect match until now. Her head hits the railing as you push her, and she whimpers again as her body instinctively arches towards you. Sophia never knew what shade of lip gloss you wore until now. Sophia never knew that you had a small patch of freckles near the edges of your chin, that your bottom lip was slightly larger than your top lip. Sophia never, never knew if you were a good kisser.

"Sophia! Over here!" Theo's shouts are what interrupt her from her thoughts. And cause her to flush, harder than she ever has before. There is nothing she can do. She meets Theo's eyes, hoping he doesn't notice-he probably can't, even if he's in denial, his vision has been getting worse-and waves towards him in silent acknowledgement. She can still feel you, your lips on her neck like you're sewn inches below her skin, sewn and embedded, embossed onto her nervous system. Where everything she hears vibrates off it and sends spikes up her spine. It only sets in now, your touch on her, your teeth tickling her ear, and your lips on-

Hers. Your hands go behind her neck, press her head forward, as hers circle your body and settle on your chest, pressing against it, as if it's keeping her afloat. Your lips part, letting hers sink into it. Your skin is on hers and it melts, it dissolves in her like waves hitting the beach. It all crashes down. Her brain fizzles out and goes blank. Her eyes are filled with your chest, your neck, your hands-

She doesn't think, she doesn't feel anything except for the heat when you kiss her. The only thing she can confirm is that she wants you to do it, over and over again, on her lips and on her face, till your lips were molded onto her face. Wherever your lips go, heat bursts from below, her blood boils and it erupts into her skin, spreading its petals like a blooming flower. You lean your head to the side to deepen the kiss, and she does too. Your hands cave in to her cheeks, as if keeping them enclosed, trapping your lips and hers together under lock and key. She is right. Your lips, your body is the sun. It burns where you kiss her, dragging out sounds from the bottom of her lungs. Her eyes flutter shut, just to open a moment later, when your hands suddenly disappear, and the sensation of your lips latched on hers dissipates. The cloud hovering over her brain evaporates and rains down on her.

Her eyes ram open again. "Soph! Hey, are you looking?"

It's Theo again, waving madly as they start going back into formation. The players are all going back to their zones, and yet, Sophia's eyes can't leave your figure standing back in the very last zone. You are no longer hunched on your stick, instead leaning to the side and getting ready to skate towards the puck. She tears her gaze away from your shirt, from your neck, and settles on the back of your head. So she doesn't think, so she doesn't think of that-oh, now she's thinking of that. She's doing a fantastic job about not thinking of you on her. Breathing in, she calms herself, hiding her face behind her hands though she's sure no one is watching her, all locked on the game. A gust of cold air blows in the rink, right in her face to cool down her flustered cheeks, and she thinks that maybe God is merciful after all.

And the game continues, with you getting the puck five times and passing it to the nearest player. The defender blocks the next player's passes, sending them back to your zone. You swing in and intercept one of the opponent's passes, before lurching forward and aiming it towards your teammate two zones in front of you, avoiding the next zone's defender immediately. The pass succeeds, with you successfully tricking the defendant, and you heave in a breath as you leave it to the rest of your teammates, your hand still gripping your stick tightly in the event the puck could get sent back to your zone. You take these few seconds to scan the rink again, and of course, your gaze gravitates towards Sophia, sitting in the very front row, wearing your sweater.

She looks so small in it, yet another slight tease towards her height. There's a flush on her cheeks-you told her she would be cold, but she insisted no. Maybe you'd get to tell her you told her so later. She would probably give you a slap to the face for that. Stubborn little thing, always barking back at you like one of those big white Huskies on that animal show you both used to watch with Theo, who was only watching it for the fishes and the dolphins-because god, you couldn't group those two together, they were completely different things! In his own words, at least. Yet another thing those two share, being too stubborn for their own damn good. You just know Sophia would've willingly suffered in the cold if you hadn't offered to give her the sweater, and you know she would have still insisted that she was fine even if her teeth were chattering from the cold and her hands were becoming icicles. She would probably still say that even if she was so frozen you'd have to mine her out of an ice box.

You want to call out, you want to, but the game's still going on. You're about to shift your gaze away from her, back to the floor-you could hear the sound of the puck whizzing closer-but fate interrupts you. She meets your eyes, and suddenly everything aligns for you. You wonder if it's the same for her, too, watching the swirls in both of your eyes clash into each other before merging into one. The gaps in the others complete yours. If it wasn't for your firm grip on the hockey stick, you would've dropped it with a loud thud on the floor. You are more than fifty metres away from her, and yet, she feels less than fifty millimeters away from you. She blinks once, then twice, as if she's confirming whether you're real or not-and god, her pink cheeks, and her pouty lips as she concentrates on you are far more than enough to send your mind into overdrive. In front of you, with her head buried into your shoulder, your nose in her hair, your hands on her hips. Her pouty lips-god, you feel like a fallen soldier. She presses her lips together, still looking at you as if she's adjusting to the sight of you, as if she's in a daze. Of course she is, you find yourself thinking fondly.

Sophia is a daydreamer. You'll always have them with you, stored in the attics and basements of your mind, memories and pictures of her taken through your eyes. Her, her head on your lap, her head on your shoulder, everywhere but the car headrest as mom drove you both and Theo to school the morning after she'd had a sleepover, which was more often than either of you would like to admit. She would drool slightly-something she still doesn't want to admit to this day, though she's been doing it her whole life. And she's zone out like that, her eyes going into a blur as if she was travelling at a hundred miles faster than the car she was in, dashing through her mind and all its alcoves. And her head would always be on you, because Theo forever insisted on sitting in the passenger seat. Sophia would give you that heart-wrenching pout, like she'd let her big wide dreams be shattered. You'd tease Theo for not being a gentleman. But he wouldn't budge, and Sophia wouldn't either.

You'd promised her that the very moment you turned eighteen, you'd get your drivers license and drive her anywhere she wanted in the passenger seat. She could sit there, watch you drive, fiddle with the air conditioning controls until she was bored and would pass out on the dashboard while the sun stroked her back. And yet, you're sure, even after you turn eighteen-she'd still zone out in the car, with the windows down and the wind bustling in like a busy marketplace, like the lights as they refracted off your windshield and onto the shadows of her silhouette, and the umbrella of her skin over your passenger seat.

She never tells you her daydreams. Sometimes she's giggling afterwards, laughing so hard that tears spill from her eyelids, seep down from the corner of her eyes. You can see everything reflected in those tears, in those eyes. When the tears are just threatening to break through, to fall from her eyes, like someone breaching the water surface in a pool. Sometimes the light is on her, and you get blinded for a second. Sometimes nothing is on her at all, and you're left in the dark with her warm, warm laughter, which feels more like light than light ever could. You don't even need to say it anymore, do you? You love her laughs of all kinds. There is only one adjective that comes to your mind when she does it. Adorable. Absolutely adorable. Utterly adorable. She's like a huge teddy bear that you want to squeeze, the one stuffed toy out of the mountain that you have that you specifically choose to cuddle with. Her laugh, everything about it-the lips, the eyes, her face-feels special. It feels like a blanket, it feels like a special hoodie that you favour over everything else. Of course, because it's...hers. No one can hate sunshine.

Oh, but you should, apparently. Since she keeps calling you a vampire. You snicker quietly to yourself, keeping it in your mind.

There are so, so many human emotions in the world. Maybe you haven't experienced most of them. But you don't need to, to know that the other half-the other horrid, painful, half-is full of emotions like being on the brink of death and feeling heartbreak. You'll do anything to keep her from experiencing that half. You'd speed through red lights for her, even if she had a concussion or just a mild paper cut. These are just the things that you'll do to keep your sun shining on earth. Her smile is no different from yours, Theo's, or mom's. There is nothing that makes the change.

Or maybe you just want her to be happy. You do, don't you? With her laugh comes her smile, her smile capable of causing all flowers within a fifty mile radius to bloom.

You love her laugh, you love her smile, you love the way that she always jumps down the doorsteps to your house, and yet goes up every single one slowly when she's stalling and doesn't wish to go yet. You love the way she immediately brightens up when she sees the bell hits three and rushes to your classroom because she knows your literature class is over. You love her. You love the way that she still insists on trying on some of your clothes even if they definitely don't fit her.

Sophia snaps out of her daze, finally, and truly meets your eyes. A wave of heat rushes over her cheeks, and you feel it start to creep in yours. Her lips, previously pressed together, part. Your eyes break from hers and down. Oh, you realise-she didn't wear lip gloss today. Oh, she's holding flowers in another hand for Theo. Oh, she's brought Theo's drink on the bench beside her. Something sticks its claws from the outside, into your heart.

The puck comes flying towards you, and you almost want to jump at the sudden sound. You swerve your stick to the front, narrowly managing to hit the puck back in the blink of time it spent in your zone. You should complain back to your teammates about her failed scoring zone passes, but you don't. The thing, the thing suffocating you and taking hostage of your lungs and heart still holds. It moves faster than the speed of light, creeps on faster than Sophia's sunlight seeps through the half-drawn blinds. It hits right on target, sending you internally reeling. It pinches your heart, grabbing it, and squeezing. There is pain, somewhere in the haze-but you don't feel it. A different kind of heat overwhelms it, shooting up every single one of your veins. It will go away-like the ocean that swallows up everything. But it doesn't. It's like oil, sticking to the surface of the water and stubbornly staying afloat. Immiscible.

And yet, when you think of your jacket on her, there is a smug, dark satisfaction. You feel like you've won. The claws are shot down and tied up tight by this feeling, and it's a battle of a defender and an attacker-though both have come from the same root cause, and both have always, always laid dormant in your heart. Why they would come springing up suddenly is a question you'll ask yourself later.

You should start giving Sophia more of your things.

Another failed pass, and the scores are equal. You almost want to groan and slump on the walls of the rink in frustration. Seriously, could any of the other players even do anything? Halftime, soon. You're seriously going to consider quitting the team if everyone else is going to play like this. The team's morale is low as you huddle together, exiting the rink from the right side while shooting glares at the opposing team. You find it amusing that the people acting the most hostile towards the other team are the ones responsible for the failed passes-maybe they feel a need to compensate, or maybe they're just trying their best to mask their inner disappointment as rage towards the other team. Either way, it's kind of pathetic and you snicker to yourself. The whistle for time rings and you make your way off the rink for a break, finding yourself moving towards the front of the stands.

You've barely started taking your skates off when hands go behind your back and almost make the both of you collapse onto the floor, and you inch your head slightly upwards to see a very, flustered Sophia with her hair in a high ponytail down her back, standing with a drink and flowers in hand. Her ponytail is off her shoulder, leaving one side exposed. Your throat goes dry. You definitely wouldn't survive in the desert if something like this made you...but this isn't just anything. It's her, for gods sake. There are many, many things you want to say when you look at her exposed neck. Half of those things involve leaning forward, and carving the swirls of her eyes on her skin. Your breaths both hitch at the same time, as she leans down to, almost stumbling-to which you reach up to stabilise her. Your hands grab either sides of her waist, and her hands, in the fumble, grab the sides of your shoulders.

"Hey," you breathe out, as if it's the first time you've seen her today. It is far from it. You have seen her more times than you've seen yourself. You've watched her in the stands, you've seen her everytime you turn on your phone, where her face lies plastered just beneath the time. Your voice breaks when you say it. It comes out far too breathy, far too high pitched for you. The reality of where your hands are on her settles in, and you stiffen slightly.

"I...I saw you score earlier. Way better than Theo, already," Sophia looks away, giving you the chance to shift, taking off your skates and standing up till your height shadows hers. Her hands, on your shoulders, before, now fall to her sides, still holding the drink and those flowers in her hand. "Wait, let's go sit down first. You should rest a bit before playing again," she continues, gesturing to a bench at the side.

Even before you can lean your hockey stick to the side of your seat, something gets shoved in your face by her hands. The drink. With the cap, and the whipped cream on top. Just eyeing the receipt tells you that it's your usual drink that you get from the café nearby. You would have picked one up earlier, if you didn't need to rush to practice. You'd also debated going out after the game just to get the drink. But now, it seems there's no need to.

"Oh? Did you buy this with your own allowance, or did you steal Theo's again?" You let the words soak in for a bit, watching Sophia's expression morph between confusion and dismay, as if deciding whether you're teasing her or asking a genuine question.

She scoffs in your face, as if she didn't spend five seconds in front of you deciding a response. "My own, of course. Do you think that little of me?"

"Maybe I do. Remind me how tall you are, again?" These teasing words slip from you as fluidly as your heart beats, like another constant rhythm in the universe. You watch as your angel flusters yet again, tossing her hair to the side in an attempt to still appear composed and in order. "A perfectly normal height, thank you. You and Theo are giants, the both of you," ah, her usual retort. You chuckle lightly and bring your hands to the top of her head, petting her, and you know. You know that she knows it's meant to be a tease, to remind her that she still is, and will probably always be, shorter than you. And yet, she takes it with just a pout. Which. Probably affects you more than your teasing affects her, it's unfair.

Your head hits the edge of the seat, groaning as you regret doing that almost immediately. God, the seat is made of plastic, isn't it? Why does it feel like reinforced chain mail armor? You go to rub the back of your head, and another hand-one that isn't yours, meets it. Your fingers brush just the slightest, before her fingers reach for your hair, but it's enough. Enough to send your pathetic, weak, useless heart into heat stroke, into a heart attack. Just one touch. You feel like you've taken fifty shots of espresso, in Sophia's words. You're so, well, gone-that you don't notice Sophia's hands parting, reaching for the bouquet, and starting to braid your hair.

"Which flower means good luck again, y/n?" She mouths silently to you, her eyes still shifting through the bouquet. Isn't that for Theo? Yet another thing you've stolen from him besides the multiple brownies he keeps leaving in obvious places and expects you not to eat when you find them. They're made by Sophia, of course you're going to eat them. Yet another law of the universe. Never, ever, miss out on one of Sophia's dishes. With her hands still in your hair and tracing your scalp, you look at the bouquet.

It's a regular bouquet, but something's off. There's no shop label, and the ribbon is tied messily with the same grace that Sophia ties her shoelaces in a rush. Because it is tied by the same person. It sinks in, your limbs and throat filling with quicksand, when you realise that she's picked everything from this bouquet by hand. The girl that resembles a flower more than anything else, picking a bouquet for you. Ironic. Sunflowers, daisies, yellow peonies sprinkled in with a bit of baby breath. It's a mix of yellow and blue, with some forget-me-nots sprinkled in as well, with blue hyacinths circling them. A unique bouquet of clashing colours and no clear ideal. And yet, you feel it. Yellow for your favourite color. Blue for your hockey team, even if she's listened to your rants about it constantly and has surely grown tired of them by now. Arranged by an amateur, the sunflowers a bit too clumped together, but it doesn't matter. Of course. It's her, of course. The flowers seem to be blooming bigger than normal, their petals more vibrant and saturated, probably because they're being held by the sun itself. You feel terrible for constantly comparing her to the same thing like that. You're a literature student, you should know better. There are so many other words to use. So many other words that are shoved back down your throat when Sophia's hands brush your face.

" Hey, I asked you a question. And you call me the daydreamer?" She snaps both of her fingers in your face twice, and you blink according to it. Your hands travel down the edges of the bouquet wrapping, brushing over the flower petals and reaching in for the stems.

"Sunflowers...and the yellow peonies, probably. Good luck, right? For me? The most honourable princess Sophia is bestowing upon me the honour of her grace?" Of course, you recover quickly. It is not a conversation between the two of you without teasing her and watching her turn pink, which sadly isn't a colour in the bouquet. You would rather the blue be replaced with pink, since it's her own favourite colour. Yet another pink and yellow thing the two of you would share, besides the same two flavour ice cream cones of strawberry and Mango, and the same two pairs of slippers with mismatched straps. Though, knowing her, she probably avoided plucking the pink flowers because she couldn't bear to let them die. Another laugh to yourself, and yet, she still dares to pluck out the blue and yellow ones.

You'd expect your princess, oh, you've said it. It sounds better than good on your tongue. Your princess. Possibly the best sounding and tasting word you'll ever say. You'll expect your princess to turn the shade of the pink peonies and roses she adores so, but no. She always serves to surprise you. She leans closer to you, and her eyes are sharp with something you didn't know she had-maybe a surge of spite to pester you. Her lashes flutter over you, flutter like little wings that threaten to fly. Just like yours, her voice changes. It's lower, deeper than usual. Missing her usual octave by far more than five semitones. Closer to twenty.

"Oh? What else could you possibly wish for, to be my prince?" She raises one of her eyebrows as she says that, and her lips press together afterwards as if she's just asked what the weather was.

Your breath stops. It doesn't break for a second, doesn't pause, doesn't hitch. It just stops, and your heart seems to fail you for the few seconds that she still looks at you as she says that. No. You do not think of anything else.

"Sophia Laforteza, proposing marriage to me at the ripe age of sixteen? What have you become? Besides, where's my ring? I want my sapphires, you know."

No. You don't think, you will the red on your cheeks away. This is the first and last time Sophia will ever retort back and fluster you again. She doesn't seem fazed at the slightest, though the Sophia you know would be a puddle on the ground, or soaking through your sweater by now. It's as if she's been given liquid confidence, liquid luck. But of course, right after that, she does something that reminds you she is still, and always, Sophia.

"Pass me that-no, the one closer to me-" she reaches for the locks of your hair, pulling three of them together to start braiding them. She holds the smallest peony between her middle and ring finger of her right, while she braids with her thumb and index. She slides the stem of the small peony in, slowly, slowly covering it up with the barricade of your hair.

Letting out an exaggerated gasp, you speak up, "Why so bossy today, Soph?"

She grumbles a bit, clearly with something poisonous to insult you on the tip of your tongue but doesn't let it slip. She's focused on the braiding now, and she slips into silence. Filling in the sudden gap of noise in the air, you start mumbling about the other flowers in the bouquet. "I think that the baby breaths are faith...mom must've told me that somewhere. The hyacinths would be forgiveness, and of course, the sunflowers and peonies would be happiness and luck. The forget-me-nots are love, you know, soph, your eternal fairytale kind," you trail off, searching the bouquet for other times. "Oh! And daises are purity, I think."

You start talking animatedly about the rest of the flowers, only stopping to mumble a few 'sorry's to Sophia whenever she tugs on your hair to ask you to stay still and sit straight. You huff and yet, you stay still like a dog on a collar. You feel like one of those domestic dogs, all tamed by simple collar words. Kind of cruel, you'd always thought, and yet, you've never had a dog. Sophia has one though, and when you think about it...yeah, maybe domesticated dogs are better. Chanel would be an absolute nightmare without commands and the leash, and we can't forget about Yoonchae, Sophia's cat. The exact opposite of Chanel, where Chanel is energetic, Yoonchae is...a couch potato. The amount of times you've brought up that comparison and the amount of smacks you've gotten from Sophia are in direct proportion. Yoonchae is the laziest creature you've ever met in your life and you aspire to live the life she does, sleeping and eating and repeating the cycle.

You feel Sophia's hands leave your hair for a moment, and she's done. From the small slip of reflection on the metal railings of the you can see the small peony in your hair. You want to stand up and go to survey the opposing team now, but you feel another hug on your hair-more rushed this time, as if in a panic. And sure enough, still from Sophia.

"Wait-I'm not done yet, stay still for a moment," Sophia whispers.

You could've sworn she was done, but you stay in your chair, because it's your princess, after all. She makes a few more hurried movements before finishing you off, just in the time for the whistle to go off, signaling the start of the second half-halftime is over. Sophia shoots you a grin and a heart, and you wave goodbye to her. The braided lock of your hair swishes to the front, to the side of your face, as you fumble to hastily put on your skates and step back onto the rink. You reach for your hockey stick before practically jumping to get back into your position onto the rink, just in time for the puck to start flying across the ice on the rink.

Your hair feels heavier and slightly undone, and you use your left hand to feel down the braid, landing at the very end. You look. The peony is braided near the top of it, while this is stuffed near the bottom.

Nearing the bottom of the braid, is a small bunch of forget-me-nots, hastily added, their blue sticking out of your hair and clearly a last minute addition. You wonder if Sophia was playing attention when she chose this as her addition, but that doesn't stop the very same flowers from blooming in your lungs. Oh. You find yourself touching the petals, reaching for the unsteady positions of this bunch of flowers rather than the beautifully fitted yellow peony on top.

Flowers. She's braided one yellow, right, so she needed to braid one blue. That is it. There is no other meanings to it. She probably added it because she wanted to show other colours. Her and Theo's, yet again, their stupid sense of fairness and justice. Theo, and Theo's best friend, always sharing the same traits and the same light.

But the hyacinths were blue too, right? There were two blue flowers in that bouquet she chose for you. Fifty fifty. Twenty five percent chance and less that she actually chose the forget-me-nots on purpose, and more than seventy-five percent chance that she simply, in her daydreamer style, chose it in her daze. Again.

Right. There was no other meanings to that. There is just one.

You remind yourself, again, and again, that there is no other meaning to it, and yet-your left hand continues to circle around it.

Of course. Theo's best friend would share the same traits as him. Theo's best friend.

When the game nears it's end, five minutes to go, the puck whizzes to your zone of the rink again. It hits you, and you dive into position, serving about as you pass the puck around. You're dangerously near the scoring zone now, and you notice that the opposing team has made a fatal error of leaving the space in front of you unguarded, with all of them desperately racing behind you-you can hear the sound of the ice scrapping underneath their skates, all three of the guards in the zone on your tail. You're near, you're practically just a metre away. It's right there, it's right there. It's right there.

It's a clear shot for you, but your stick moves sideways, and you pass the puck to someone else. Someone closer to the scoring zone with a much worse angle than you, even though you can make it. You can, can't you? They look startled, as if not expecting the pass, and it's justified-they shoot and miss just by a small angle. Five degrees, give or take. The home team groans in despair and you feel yourself shrink into your skeleton. You should've taken that shot. You are no better than the rest of the team that you called pathetic earlier. You could have made that. Why didn't you?

The game ends in a disappointing tie, and you don't think, you just move, move off the rink as everyone else does, in a somber tone. It started off so well, but ended off with so many missed pauses and lost opportunities to score again. You beat up yourself internally. Everyone will, everyone will blame the poor burnette that missed the shot that was so close to him. But you, you're the one that had the best range, the best angle. You're a hypocrite, talking about how all the other players are horrible and clearly don't wish to try, even as you purposely ruin an opportunity to win for the team. You're revolted at yourself, even as you snap off your skates in frustration. You don't know if you're disappointed, mad, or simply just disgusted with yourself. The hands shake. The hockey stick drops at the nearest bench once you collapse to sit on it, far away from the rest of the team, who is playfully bullying the burnette that missed, all supposedly in good fun-though even from metres away you can feel the bubbling anger and blame underneath. All the silent words unspoken aimed like arrows to be shot from the crossbow of their lips, open, load onto the very tip of the tongue, and shoot. All missing the target on the brunette's back and hitting the palms of your hands.

You don't think you can listen any longer. You move, move to the very front row of the benches. And there, at the left side of where you collapse, is your girl wearing your sweater and sunflowers. She's silent as she moves towards you, and perhaps you've always been a bit too harsh while teasing her about being tender hearted. She knows when you're sad, she knows when something, even the slightest, is wrong. Her emotional intelligence matches her genius at studies, and that is something that lifts the weight, the sand pouring down and filling the chambers of your heart. It's your girl, of course. Your lips part to silently laugh, only to be met with salty tears in your mouth.

Of all the things you are not, you are definitely not a pretty crier.

You feel the sweater being thrown around your shoulders, you feel her fingers running themselves over your tears as your limbs start quivering. Is it panic? Is it a panic attack? Don't think. You are the cause of all your problems. First it was your swing, then not shooting, then now crying. Tender hearted, Sophia? You're crying over a simple mistake that anyone could've made. Sure, a simple mistake that cost the team. You don't wear your heart on your sleeve, you jokingly tell Sophia. That's what you say all the time. You are the world's greatest liar.

You feel her body press against yours on the left side, and you lean on hers. This in the car, you both on the hockey benches. Her head on your shoulder, your head on hers. Her hands are on yours, on the lap. Letting your tears run down your chin and soak into the sweater you just know that she'll ask to steal later. And yet, she doesn't stop them. She doesn't wipe them away, she lets them fall.

She speaks before you ever do. "I'm not saying this to spite Theo, or to comfort you. There is no shame in being scared. You just are."

Scared. That's the best word. Something that she manages to come up with before you do, a chemistry student managing to conjure up the all compressing word faster than a literature student. Scared. Yes. You are. You're a coward. That is what should come from your lips. And that is exactly what does.

"I'm stupid, Sophie. I should've shot. You saw me, didn't you? I could've scored. But I didn't."

It's not a problem now, but you're not stupid enough to think that it won't be later. This isn't a one time thing. Being scared is not a one time thing. It was an instinct, it was your reflex in that situation. It was always inside you, it was etched in your biology. It is in your nature, it is brewed in your nature. You have cowardice as an ingredient in your blood and has a pattern on your system. You will continue, you will always be a coward. Even with the sweater, there is a layer of cold fluttering between your skin.

She scoffs quietly, as if she can't believe you. "Your literature vocabulary really is a drawback sometimes, you know. I know what you're thinking, y/n," she puts two fingers on either side of her head, and you would laugh out loud at the sight if your throat wasn't parched and seemingly frozen solid. "I'm a psychic, you know. I have mind-reading powers." She looks straight into your eyes, as if trying to hypnotise you, read deep into your soul.

You manage to choke out another retort for her. "I hear new things about you everyday, huh, Soph?"

"And I debunk your lies everyday now. Me, the tender hearted one? Lies. All lies. Look at you, softie."

How does she do that? The tears are still spilling from your eyes but she's managed to scoop out the suffocating piles of weights choking up your lungs. Maybe you shouldn't ask those questions anymore, it's clearly witchcraft. You would believe she was the products of your dreams. Don't even question it anymore, her existence is just one of those things that will never be explained. Nonsensical, impossible. Magic.

"Really, me, the softie? What about you the time you accidentally spilled your food on the playground floor?" She makes you recover so easily, your mind chained back to life, her lifeline, which you are so desperate to be a part of.

She lets out another exaggerated gasp, and that really should be the trademark of your relationship at this point. You think you have both done that more than you've said each other's names. "That was years ago, mind you. What we're talking about was five minutes ago!"

You nod your head sarcastically, continuing on your teasing streak. "Yes. But it should be in your bloodline, by now, right? It'll be in your future children's blood, and it'll continue to haunt it like a generation curse." Nature. In your nature, that's what you want to say. It will stay in your nature, and expose you for how you are at very moment, destroying you and haunting you like a ghost until you greet the grim reaper on the other side of life.

Soft. It's silent for a while, before Sophia makes a shift like she has to move, and you let her. Because of course. Your nature. Your blood. You are too scared to tell her you don't want her to leave. You were braver years back, when you asked her to stay while she was on the doorstep. It is the same scenario. You've regressed. All there was is a change in location, the door step to the hockey rink benches. That slimy, sticky feeling clogs the inside of your lungs as the walls press together, as you frantically pull them apart to separate only for them to dance back into their place within seconds-and you feel stuck under, pressing your neck and head underwater.

Has it always been in your blood, or are you just inflicted it now? You never said it directly to her. On the doorstep, you asked her for a sleepover. The word stay never opened up from your vocabulary, never made its way into anything you said later into that crescent night. She leaves once again, her hand skipping from your grasp.

Then you remember that she's completely the opposite. The first time you told her your name, she asked for it. Straight. You can remember her lingering on your doorstep, as if building up courage to ask such a trivial question. Such a small question for you, but if she had never asked it, she wouldn't be with you right now. Such a trivial question. This is what they all talked about, the butterfly effect.

Maybe if you asked her now, that would be trivial for her too. Maybe you've missed something. If you don't ask her, how much of her are you losing?

You can see her reason for leaving now, far in the distance, with brown hair and brown eyes. With golden sparkles. Theo, Theo waving at Sophia from a distance. They're probably going to celebrate afterwards, just like they've always done after a game. Somewhere in the back of the playground, on the dual swings, both taking turns to push each other. Theo will practically throw her in the air, while Sophia will brutally aim to push him towards the end of his life.

Sophia, Your best friend's brother is leaving the ocean foam for the stars. She's going closer to the sky, closer than she ever will be, closer than airplanes and spacecrafts and satellites.

"y/n, you are not a coward. I'm not an optimist, you're just a pessimist. That is a biggest myth I've heard since the fact that the earth was flat."

"I can't believe you still think like that. Weren't you literally the one that saved me from that stupid bet I made with Theo for hide and seek? Or the haunted house? Don't forget that, you were in front of me the whole time."

"You think too much, sometimes. Way too much, you know."

Not a coward in her words.

She leaves. For a moment, for a second, for the split particle speed between moments where she gets off the bench and where she starts moving, you wonder. You let yourself believe that the impossible exists, that your angel has mind-reading powers. That you haven't revealed too much to her that she's managed to pierce into her mind. It is only now that you realise, she has more of you than you have of yourself. That she infiltrates every corner, every alcove, even the attics and the basement and the windowsills. There is something of her in every matter of your short, sixteen year old life.

Stay. Can you wait for me for five minutes? Can you give me a minute? Wait for me, Sophia. Those are the words that your mind supplies. Not a single one of those sentences have the word in it. And yet, you can't say it. You break the promise Sophia's made for you to the world with your existence. Sophia, I'm a coward.

Admitting you're a coward is so much easier than saying you want her to stay. Coward. Six letters. Stay. Four letters. Your true nature comes easier to you than the lies, it is natural. It is easier to speak the truth-that you are the coward, rather than lie to the angel, that you aren't. One of those is the lie. By human nature, honesty comes first. That's right, isn't it? That's right for the humans. Would the opposite be for the devils?

Sophia, I'm a coward.

Sophia, can you stay for a second?

It takes less than a second to realise that both are the truth.

You can hear one of the doors to the hockey rink open and shut, and you know Theo and Sophia have left, probably the way they both came, on their matching bicycles with the bells that don't work and they refuse to change.

You've turned your beloved angel into a sinner. Oh, Sophia, you've sinned. You are a coward, and Sophia is spiting lies in your face, drilling them into your ears. You have corrupted the brightest thing in your life. Your angel is tainted with your sins, the sins sticking to her wings, weighing her down, like oil to the corner of your throat.

How many times you made her lie for you? Lie to you? More than the strands of hair on her head. She is proof that you can love a sinner, especially if you are a devil. Maybe it occurs to you that she's made you an angel. If that is true, she is the world's most angelic devil, and you are her most devilish angel.

The door Sophia and Theo leave through doesn't fully close, a peek of light still pouring into the rink. It is a small opening, a small opening of light and a small opening of time. If you move now, you can reach Sophia. You can still stop her from sinning. If you tell her the truth now, she will remain your angel.

There will always be more 'No's in the world than 'Yes's. No, you've ruined her. No, Sophia, I'm a coward.

No, Sophia. You still left. I didn't ask you to stay. And I didn't say anything. You have turned an angel to a devil.

To you, that is the most cowardly act of all.

It is your finals week. Correction, it is everyone's finals week. By not everyone is acting like it is. Especially not the people in front of you. Theo, Sophia, Manon and Megan. Oh my god. You've chosen possibly the worst combination of people to attempt to study with. Two out of the four, which you will not name-now you think of it, this could apply to all of them-could not give a better damn about their grades. It is a wonder if they'll even make it past high school at this rate, but that is certainly not your problem. One of the four seems to somehow surprisingly, you might add, get high grades in class...with what, luck? The other one in question is just a genius, you don't even question it at this point.

So, what happens when you have four people who don't study, sit with someone who needs to study? Well, contrary to popular belief, it's not as bad as it seems. They all...entertain each other well enough. You feel like an absent babysitter, watching them fight among each other. And yet, somehow, the one that you expected to be the root of the chaos, is. Quiet.

Probably because she's beside you, trying her best to teach you chemistry. The one subject, and coincidentally, her favorite one. You will never understand. Words are so, so much easier to understand than chemical formulas, and why acids react the way they do to alkalines. Words are so, so much easier than understanding why iron has at least two different types and why lead has five.

You've got your earpods in, and Sophia is humming some tune that you can't make out. You wouldn't put it past her for it to be one of those nursery rhymes, the ones that you know pop up in her head randomly. Judging by the swaying of her head, you'd say that it's probably something bearing the resemblance of the cat and the fiddle. Sophia is a sworn earphones user, and you've always been a headphones user until her. You'd remember.

You've had a hobby of listening to music in the cars while mom was driving the three of you to school after a sleepover night, listening to something you actually liked over the radio mom had blasting in the car. Clearly, Theo and Sophia didn't mind, of course. Because they were sleeping. You've told this story before. You would plug your wired headphones into your phone, and Sophia would constantly bump into it as she tried to lay her head on your shoulder. You should've shoved her head away, or told her to lay her head in your lap like she did sometimes. But you didn't. You let her lay there. Refusing her would be like cruelty-it would be a sin in itself.

For your next birthday, you bought a pair of earphones with the money that your money gifted you. So that she wouldn't bump into your headphones anymore, that's what you told yourself. So that you could listen without interruption, when her head eventually slacked towards your direction, your seat, completely missing their headrest-to your shoulder. Earphones, so she would have space on your shoulder to rest. Show and tell, and you'd written those earphones as the best purchase you'd made in your life. And the teacher had asked, but you'd froze. Sophia was there, front row and center, looking at you. You couldn't say it. She makes you say all these things and yet she's the same reason they can't come out of your lips. She puts them in everything you do, and yet you can't talk a single thing about her if she's in front of you. The best thirty dollars you'd ever spent, on a pair of cheap earphones that broke on one side a few months later. Even then, you'd kept it. You just listened to the music on one side, leaving another free for Sophia to rest on. You're surprised the left side of your neck, your shoulder, doesn't have an imprint of her face.

You only replaced those earphones, when Sophia said she wanted to listen to what you did. So you got new ones, and shared them with her. The only reason you got new ones, and yet you still kept the old ones in a location that girls kept their diaries in. Like a dirty secret no one else could know, despite it not being anything of that sort. It was just a pair of earphones, and yet, you feel the need to hide it. It is the feelings when it comes with it. You feel the need to bury them, hide them away-especially from her. There is chemistry in the air when Sophia puts her head on you, and you want her hair to fuse into your skin. It tickles the side of your neck, frustrates you, and yet you can never shake her off. It might something to do with the fact that she cuddles you like a panda on bamboo, but you'd like to think otherwise. That action from her, on the car, on the drive out, brings your heart so close to bursting at the seams that Sophia has stitched back herself. She has built the chambers and pillars of your heart herself, herself and her fingernails that claw into your skin when she comes closer. She has constructed the entrances and the exits, the glamorous chandeliers that lines in your lungs. She has connected them to the rest of your body, letting you feel. She makes you feel.

She has stitched it, sutured it. A fail on a test, a tear, a stitch. One tear from your eyes, a tear on your heart. She has stitched, sewn everything together. You truly believe that Sophia must have more than one heart. There is simply no way someone can be just that much.

She is the best thirty dollars you've ever spent, which is far, far too low of a cost for how much she's worth. You wouldn't be able to afford her even if you had all the gold and diamonds in the world. Even one touch would be twice the price. But they'd vary. You'd argue that one touch from her fingertips on your chin is worth more than her taking your hands in hers, despite the area difference. The feeling of a light curtain breeze dancing over your skin to the feeling of having your fingers threaded and fitting perfectly with hers, resembling the sand dunes for the desert that your throat seems to aspire to become around her.

Front row and center, she sat there. Bright eyes and bright smile and bright lights on her. She looks like something out of a telenova, sparkles everywhere, the lights flashing crazily all overhead with no clear direction-and yet, somehow hitting everything right. You'd brought the very same earphones with you, the one broken on one side. She is there. You don't say it. You don't say a lot of things.

Sophia has chosen something she hasn't allowed you to see, a secret, she claims. After you make up some stupid story as to why the earphones are so important to you, something about how you'd saved up to get them-which you did, but that pales in comparison to the actual reason-it is Sophia's turn. She steps up, and the class claps, the tables and chairs themselves stepping aside and parting like the sea when she walks up. The object is in her pocket, and when she takes it out, there is yet another thing added to the list of things you can't say.

Out of her pocket, she fishes out those pink socks. Maybe not pink anymore, they've faded. They've changed from a hot pink to something white that just barely, barely carries any traces of pink. She launches into the story about the fight, leaving out Alex's name as she eyes Theo's reaction, and how the sleepover happened. You can feel people's eyes on you after this. Their eyes all on you. They all press on your bag, and on your front, she looks straight at you. How ironic it is that you feel the most alive when your heart skips a beat for her, and you feel the closest to death when it's beating rapidly like the continuous stream of a river. The pink socks. How much further will they haunt your life? How much further will you remember them, all because you gave her a pair of socks you knew that she'd like the colour of? This is another ripple effect. From the moment in the doorstep when she asked your name, to the moment you took those socks out of your closet and gave them to her. One for one, you're tied, you suppose.

But maybe it's not seen as important to her as the earphones are. She doesn't hide them away. She's quite open about it all, in fact. Unlike you, who's already coiled up the earphones in your fingers and stuffed them into your pocket. Your feelings don't quite match with these objects, you suppose. What do you feel when you look at your earphones anyway? A feeling that makes you feel dirty for enjoying it, the rush that comes with it. Maybe Sophia doesn't have that when she's showing off the socks. You don't quite realise, back then, that people are different. Some people wish to keep important things to themselves while others wish to show off their importance to others.

There is a part of you that wants to keep her under lock and key, and it is the same part of you that does not wish to ask her to stay. Cowardice. You would not be able to fight if they ever took her away. But it is not genetics. Theo is brave, Theo is brave enough to jump straight to violence and fight for what he thinks is worth. Of course he is, it is not genetics. It is just the importance of your own nature. It has been embedded in your skin even before you were born. There is nothing you can do about it, the way that your throat seems to shrink and collapse into itself when it comes to anything about her. There is nothing you can do about it, about why your body seems to bend to follow the rhythm of her heart. Just like there is nothing you can do about allergies, health conditions, and pure emotion.

But one thing you'll never understand the importance of is the order of elements in the periodic table. Which is fantastic, because Theo brings up something else immediately, something that you eagerly begin to listen to despite having no real interest at all. And also, the fact that your tutor, Sophia, has given up on chemistry and has started teasing Theo again. One topic goes to another, and eventually the study session is completely forgotten-something that you're completely on board with, to be honest, even if you're the one that arranged it in the first place. No, the conversation shifts to something else, the posters on the walls, next to the lockers. To be fair, they weren't extremely noticeable, despite their location. Your locker was next to one, but in the hurry you always had to grab your books and head to class, you had simply acknowledged its existence. You never read the details on it, but the four of them clearly have. It's about theater. Or rather, the auditions for the musical that the theater will put up soon enough. The auditions for West Side Story. You've...you won't lie, you've never heard of that musical before. Though, you have minimal experience with them. The only ones you've seen so far are the sound of music and perhaps a badly put together rendition of Hamilton in middle school. But the other four, oh, the other four-you understand why people say there are musical theater kids at heart. They are vibrating in their seats. They probably have enough energy combined to launch a rocket to the moon and back. West side story. What was that, even?

Megan's eyes are doing that weird thing again, but that is the least of your concerns right now. The very least of your worries, something that you only register in the corner of your mind and don't pay attention to. One, maybe it's because that's one of the least weirdest things about your friend, or two, the most probable reason-because everyone else is doing something worse. You don't...Sophia was absolutely wrong because even your literature vocabulary fails you for a word to describe what Manon is doing. She's balancing on the chair behind the tables while Sophia and Theo cheer her on. For the very first time since you've known her, you can say that Megan wasn't the worst one here.

"y/n, you don't understand. It's the feelings, you know? The wide west, the oh, you should try out for one of the characters, you know?"

Absolutely not, and you tell her so.

"Well, the rest of us are going to, aren't we? I feel like Theo should shoot for Tony, he resembles him anyway," Sophia snipes at Theo, and you can only imagine whoever Tony is to be a large burly man with a mustache and cowboy hat.

"Theo as the main lead, then Manon, you should go for Anita-you want to, don't you?" Megan brings it up, and you realise they're going in an order, clockwise from Theo.

They seem to assign roles to everyone around the table, and you know it's only a matter of time before they start to pick on you, you're going after Sophia. You're sitting to Manon's left of course, and Sophia's right.

"Wait...then Megan should go for Bernado-no, trust me, I'm not joking. It could work! I see the vision!" Manon practically screams this at Megan, and you can see Sophia and Theo stunned for a few seconds before seemingly actually considering her in the role. "It couldddd work, I agree," Sophia nods her head, and when she notices Theo daze out for another moment, she smacks him on the shoulder and he nods along with her, startled. He blinks slowly, raising his eyebrows at her, and she scoffs in his face, rolling her eyes. At that, he snickers lightly, trying his best to muffle it to no avail-Sophia notices, and she smacks him again. Really, he's going to have more bruises from Sophia at this point than for Sophia. You're not blind. You know. You're not the only one that knows the reason behind Theo's other fights, and you're definitely not the only one that knows that Sophia is. Beautiful.

That is something no one here will argue against. Theo will not, you will not, Megan and Manon will not, Sophia will...

Well, Sophia might. But does her opinion really matter here?

Now their gazes shift to Sophia, and your guess is right on the money. After all, what role for her besides the leading female? "You should be Maria for sure, though I heard that a lot of others are auditioning for her. But I'm sure you'll get it, you're practically a Disney princess yourself." The leading female for Sophia. You have no idea or vision of what this musical is, but you're already sure that the leading role is for her. She is made to be front and center.

And now, there comes you. You, who is reluctant to perform and yet being begged by everyone here to just try and do it. Sophia eyes you, looks over you for a moment, before bursting into another fit of giggles, Megan and Manon slowly following, while Theo has gone into his daze again. He's always like that whenever he's not looking at Sophia, as if she's the only thing worth snapping out for. That is the point you and your brother will always meet. Still, the girls are laughing louder and louder and you're sure the librarian is about to chew all of you out. As if she wasn't done with you all already. Usually, she'd shout at you much earlier. You wonder if she's simply given up on you all, and you're not even shaming her-you would too, if they weren't your friends.

Sensing your obvious reluctance, they pretend to ponder deeply about what role they'd like you to try. They might be crazy and persuasive, but they are not cruel by any means. Just try for a side, Manon suggests. That is probably the best deal you'll get. Try for a side, get three lines or less, and just try to enjoy the experience for the first time. You don't even need to really appear on the front stage.

"It's for the experience, the performance experience!" You can tell, Sophia is far far more invested in this than you. She could have become a child actor with her talent. You'd like to imagine Sophia growing up in Hollywood rather than the area you do now. Somehow, you're certain that she'll still find a way to become the exact same person she is now. People say that the environment changes you, and sure, while that might apply to some, it certainly doesn't apply to her-she herself seems to be the one changing the environment around her. If she had gone to Hollywood as a child, it isn't Sophia that would have changed. You wouldn't be the same person, Theo wouldn't, and none of your shared friends would. Even your mom probably wouldn't be the same, Sophia's basically her third child now with the amount of times she's been over to play with Theo. She has changed everyone around you.

Have you changed her too? Sophia still has all of her childhood habits-daydreaming, drooling, a very, very sweet tooth-but maybe something has changed. Appearance wise she has, all of you have. She has gone from the cutest girl in the world, someone that you've compared to a teddy bear that you just want to keep hugging, suffocating it slowly. Cute enough to warrant near death attempts for you. But now, you suppose people would really, really take their lives for her. You wouldn't be surprised. She has gone from the kind of beauty you wish to kiss on the forehead to one you wish to kiss on her lips, her collar bones, her chest. So many tragedies have happened because of god-like beauty like hers. You accept your fate to be her next.

Scoffing loudly, you let out a sigh. You've always given in to Sophia. That's something that you can't ever change. Thinking again, maybe that is something that was built into your biology as well. All the inabilities and limitations when it comes to her. "Fine, but as a side role. And keep in mind that you still owe me the five dollars you used to buy lunch before."

"Seriously? You're still hung up on that? I can't believe you agreed though. y/n actually agreed for once...?"

Oh my god, what have you gotten yourself into? Yet, her unchanging smile still shines in your face. You want to learn too much of her so that you can't learn anymore. Theo as the leading male and Sophia as the leading female is. Theo, probably playing as her love interest. Expected. That's what it tells you, despite everything. Maybe because it's always been like this, since Theo somehow stumbled upon an angel and befriended her. That is the greatest stroke of luck that both of you will receive in your life.

The devil crawls up from your heart. It has always been there. You pray that Theo's luck runs out for his audition.

When you get to the audition rooms, Sophia dragging you there just after your failed study session, it's more packed than you thought it would be. Huh. You must have really, really misjudged the amount of people in your school that wanted to take part in a musical. There's already a line, a string of people so long they've had to book three rooms and take another one. The room at the very end of the fall must be the room where you audition, since it's the only one not brimming with noise. It is also the same room where a very intimidating looking woman, probably the main runner of this musical program, is sitting next to, with her blue clip board held in a threatening matter and a red pen in her other hand. But maybe you were right after all, because the line seems to pass faster than it should. Either a lot of people backed out the moment they saw the women judging their auditions-truthfully, you would too if not for Sophia's relentless teasing later, which you'd take anything to avoid. Especially if Theo joins her and gangs up on you, which has a very high possibility of happening. Well, either that they backed out or the majority were just there to support their friends who were trying, and you could have been one of them if not for...well, your friends.You huff, laughing inwardly. Really, if they weren't your friends, you feel like you would've killed them ages ago. But, then again, knowing that they're your friends, you know that they would find a way to revive themselves and come back to life purely for the reason of tormenting you.

"y/n l/n, I assume you're here to audition today, judging by the fact that you're standing in the audition queue. Now, what role are you auditioning for?"

Wow. She is scary. You would back out too. You scramble to remember the name of the side character, the one that Sophia told you to go for because of their supposed 'comedic relief', whatever that meant to a girl that found the most ridiculous things funny. Knowing that, you could be signing yourself into playing a villianous character, or even a tree in the backdrop of the play. It has happened once, and she might do it again. Sophia is not over doing dirty tricks like that.

Ah. Martha. You think that was her name. A very, very, minor role. With less than three lines or so, not even appearing in the same scenes Sophia and Theo would. Sophia going for Maria, you recall, and Theo going for Tony. He's going to play her love interest, he's probably going to kiss her on stage. And something strikes you, just then on the spot. He's going to kiss her on stage in front of everyone, and knowing the romantic your brother is, he's going to confess on the opening night just after, appearing behind Sophia with flowers. He's going to start her fairytale, turn the key in the lock. His key, his lips, the only perfect fit.

"Hello? We don't have all the time in the world for you, you know. What role are you going for?" The women's voice cuts through your throat, a clean beheading.

No hesitation this time. Coward.

"I'm looking to play the role of Tony."

Sorry, Sophia. This will be the first time your prince disobeys your orders. Princess, please have mercy. What irony that the one time you don't act like a coward is when you're going against your princess' orders.

[Ten photo limit reminding me this is getting long af]

You are not looking forward to checking that list. You just know that you aren't on there, because you never went for the side role of Martha...yes, Martha. And you certainly aren't going to get the role of Tony either, with what Theo and an absurd amount of other people going for it. Even the woman at the front gave you a questioning look as if you were insane when it came out of your mouth. You, as a girl too. You were insane, what were you thinking? And yes, you can see Sophia running up the halls now, meaning that you have to face the music. It brings you some reassurance that Sophia has most likely gotten the role she wanted, so she'll hopefully be too giddy with joy to be too mad. You don't even need to tell her, since your name won't appear on the list. You should just pretend to sheepishly admit that you chickened out and didn't audition. You change your mind, either way, you won't be able to escape reading. Teasing for chickening out and not auditioning in the end is much more easier to admit than telling her that you went for Theo's role, the leading role, of all things. You don't even want to try to guess what her expression would be.

Her hand jumps into yours before dragging you down the hallway without even a word-she knows you'll follow, and you do. There is a list at the very end of the hall, dramatic almost, as if calling you towards it. Calling everyone towards it to bask in its glory. That piece of paper, flimsy, glossy paper barely clinging onto the old paint of the wall, with those words printed in the world's tiniest font size. You can't even make out the words from here, whether that be by the light shining onto the poster, shadowing the words, or the huge crowd in front of it, some of them with grins on their face and the others the opposite. She sprints towards it, the crowd parting for her, and you're expecting her to jump on you in joy when she realises that her name is there, her name is there for the leading female role. And then afterwards, then her eyes will shift down to try to find yours, and you'll have to tell the truth. You practically brace yourself. For the screams, then the smack, and then the teasing when she reaches her incorrect conclusion. It doesn't come. It never comes. When you open your eyes, she's blanked out. Her eyes, those swirls you love, they've really turned into the mist, fogging up her vision. You can barely see her pupil over the clouds. Her face betrays nothing, her mouth wide open. You can tell she's shocked. For what? That you didn't get it? That you didn't tell her? Besides, she shouldn't be making that face right now. She got the role, didn't she? You scan down the list to check. Beside the role of Maria, the second name from the top, it's Sophia's name. She got it. So why isn't she...?

You go down the rest of the list from there. As expected, your name isn't on it. Because you didn't go for any of those roles. Why is she...did Theo not get his role? Is that it? Her grip on your hand tightens as her gaze drops to the floor. When she looks up again, her lips have parted into a small. One masking confusion, one masking shock, one with something else you can't decipher. You direct your vision towards the very top name on the list.

It's Theo's. Theo will be the leading actor to kiss her. As you predicted, as everyone predicted, as Sophia predicted. She told him to go for it, after all. But beside his name, in a smaller font, is yours.

Understudy for the role of Tony: Y/n l/n.

Oh. The list didn't give you a chance to lie. The list is not human. The list doesn't have expressions or sarcasm or a shocked gaping mouth. It just has words in that curly black font. Sophia knows, she knows that you tried out for it now. That you went for Theo's position. The list doesn't let you lie, you coward. Why? Why is it that you can never escape your cowardice? Is it really that ingrained into your soul? You went for the role, and now you can't, you don't even want to admit it. Did you really think you were being brave by going for Theo's role?

You are a coward, you know. You know you went for his role for a reason. It is her. It is always her. She smiled, and she was perfect, and you liked her instantly. It is very hard to dislike perfect things like her that seem molded by the hands of heaven. Things like the sun and beautiful faces and warmth and the feeling of sand beneath your feet. Things like her eyes, her lips, and her tears. She is a beautiful crier, her crying like the light hitting the horizon, the very window of time for the orange in the sun to merge with the blue. Her tears latch onto her lashes and never fall. As if they're waiting for her to let them go, let them go and race against her cheeks and finish at her chin, painting her face to the surface of the lake, like letting varnish flow on a painting. These are the easiest, the easiest things to love that don't require an explanation. The things that everyone loves and knows and knows they love. She is simply one of those things that goes without saying. And yet, it is hard to admit you love her. Is there even an explanation for that? No. You yourself are a most interesting puzzle that you wish to claw your heart out of your ribs and dissect it. Undo all the threads she has sewn to keep you together over the years. A muscle tissue of grief, a vein of mystery, a chamber of her. How much of your heart has the parasite already consumed? There will be nothing left of yours soon. You can't put yourself into words. Maybe you could put her into them. If you ever could, you'd read her over and over again, even if she were the ingredients on her shampoo bottle.

You know, you'll do anything for her. You will do everything for her but those three words from your lips. Every part of you will love her but your lips. That takes a different type of cowardice.

"You're the understudy for Tony," she mumbles, softer than she should be. Something that soft, that gentle, less than the sprinkling of dew on the grass, shouldn't be able to cut. Should not be able to stab, and should not be able to kill. But a dull knife is still a knife, after all. And your angel, with her knife, can still be a killer. Her silhouette, knife in hand and blood on lips, will still be mistaken for the grim reaper. "I don't think the others know about this yet." That is all she says before the knives turn back into feathers falling from her wings. She doesn't bring anything else up.

"You got the Maria role, though," you're desperately trying to change the topic, and you're sure she can sense it too. She agrees though, and her eyes fall on the list again-and you realise, she hasn't checked her own name. She looked for yours first. She just gives you a small smile and a nod to compliment it. You won't say sorry, though. God, how many times will you say this again? She is kind, too kind. Her heart must be made out of cotton and wool to be this soft. An apology would evoke guilt in her heart for the way she most likely feels towards you. Anger? Frustration? She shouldn't feel guilty for something you did. That is, the one thing you can still do for her.

You are a horrible person, you know? You have turned into one for her. Is she really the devil, then? Maybe that is the secret your heart has been holding out for you, the only reason it is not fully hers. Because your angel is the devil, because she has made so, so many people sin and fight for her, because she has turned so many into sinners just for the sake of being close. That secret, that reason, is the only reason your heart keeps in a piece.

It is the fifth week of rehearsals that lands you in hot water. At least, it seems like it. The strict women with the clipboard-you've now learned that her name is Mrs Carla, calls you to the side after rehearsing a scene, the scene where Tony realises that he's fallen for Maria. You know, the plot of the musical just seems to get worse and worse every time you try to retell it to yourself. You find yourself cringing internally when you try to imagine Maria in your head, and Tony wringing his hands together when he realises. Mrs Carla doesn't groan, doesn't point anything that you do out, just pulls you to the side. She's absolutely silent. That's how you know. She purses her lips together, the thin line in her forehead creasing again.

"Y/n, I know you're trying. And your acting is good, it's improving. But that particular scene, it's...try to work on it, alright? You're acting like how Tony would, rather than how you would."

Your eyebrows crease in confusion. Is that not it is supposed to work? Even for being an experienced theater teacher, this seems a bit much.

"I'm playing Tony. Shouldn't I...act like him? I've read the script, watched the movie it's based off..." It doesn't make sense in your head. You are playing Tony, that stupid yet reckless man that loses it when it comes to love. You've analysed his character deeply, annotating the script and making sure you read his lines in the same way you think he would. Even if you were just an understudy.

Mrs Carla doesn't sigh, but she doesn't do much else either. She just gives you a look. "I don't want you to be Tony. I want you to be yourself-and, before you protest, yes, I can tell you want to," she puts a finger in front of you as if to stop you. "You are playing Tony, so you are the Tony now. Deliver your character through his lines. You are him, you are not simply acting him."

Your look of confusion makes her sigh. Finally. A sound out of her. That's been worrying you. "Maybe you should talk to someone that's good at emotional scenes. They could help," her gaze leaves yours for a moment, as if scanning the room for potential victims to burden them with you. You can feel the shame burning through your finger tips when her eyes manage to scan over most of the room before finally reaching the last corner. Finally, her lips part again. You pray for the unfortunate soul that will be forced to help you.

"Ask Sophia. Here's a reason we chose her for that leading role, after all. She's free right now too, always playing around. Go ask her now, to help you later."

Oh. Ok. Well, it's not the best, but it's not the worst that could happen. You can imagine the teasing you'd get if she'd asked Theo. Not that there wouldn't be teasing from Sophia, but milder. Less. Sophia is kinder, after all, much kinder than your devilish twin brother. But she would still absolutely tease you. But you feel indebted to her, after she didn't say a word about the role you ended up getting. She deserves to laugh. You took at from her today. She should have smiled, jumped up until the locks of her hair kissed the ceiling, but she didn't. When she saw her name on that list, right beside Maria, she should've bloomed and the lights in the hallway should have dimmed in the sun's presence. If teasing you about your acting, something you don't particularly care about, can bring something your sun back into its orbit, you'll let it happen.

But later, of course. When you glance over, Sophia is busy talking with Manon while chewing a mouthful of fries very loudly. You swear Mrs Carla must've seen her by now, and she's made it very clear multiple times-but there's always favoritism, you suppose. You can't blame her either. You don't even register that Soph is saying, but you know that she's in her own element. The fries are hanging out of her mouth and her tongue is somewhere caved into it. She is most likely channeling the character she's playing, Maria, but all you see is Sophia. She's playing Maria, but she's still so vividly Sophia you can feel it. She is Maria, but she is also Sophia. She plays Maria in a different way than everyone else does, something with her own charm and that shining smile. Maybe it is the very fact that you can imagine Maria playing hide and seek in the playground and eating fries with sprite because of her. Once she chews and swallows, she almost chokes, and you can see the lump go down she throat before Manon offers some water. Sophia gulps it down, only to send herself into another choking fit, sending Manon into pleas of laughter. Like a chain reaction, Sophia sees it and starts choking even worse, the one only shutting up when finally given a look by Mrs Carla. And even after that, you see Manon stuff another handful of fries right in her mouth. They really do not learn.

Later, after you've asked Sophia hastily while she was packing up to leave, you both meet again at her door step. She left earlier, while you had to stay behind due to extra poetry club duties. You really shouldn't have agreed to taking up the role, you probably wouldn't even be playing it. As you make your way to your house, your bag slumped against your shoulder, you sigh again. She said yes, and she looked no different than before. But something has changed, since that day that she saw your name under Theo's. She hasn't changed in your eyes, but you can sense you have in hers. She looks at you different, shifting her gaze from you to Theo and everywhere else constantly, and she doesn't lean on you in the car anymore. If anything, you miss her warmth. You miss one of her smiles again. Sophia is a happy person. She smiles all the time. In the morning, when you both head to school. A sleepy smile, where she's rubbing her eyes and she can't even talk coherently. Lunch, where you occasionally meet, and she's sitting on the benches with Theo-a excited one, her eyes scrunched up and trying to call out to you despite her mouth being full of her food. After school, now, the doorstep, when you both head home, and she shoots you one before she sprints back to her house nine down.

You barely make it to your room, feeling like a stranger in your own house. You grip the railings, and your doorknob seems colder than it should be. The opening, the lock, the turning, rings in your ears. The dim lighting that you never bothered to fix illuminates her again, her back facing the window. She's sitting on the right side of the bed, always her side. She's got the blankets cuddled up to her chest, her arms on her lap. She turns around when you come, and immediately, the air is different. She still looks at you and smiles, but your cheeks heat the moment that she touches your hand, pulls them to her as you settle on the left side, your side of your own bed. Something spikes like dopamine straight to your heart when she starts chattering and mumbling about something she saw and heard in class today. But when she finally gets to the point, you see something.

She's got no socks on.

"So, since Mrs Carla says that you lack...what, character? Your own character. When you're playing Tony, that is," she mumbles on, the blankets now to her chin, and you debate making the temperature of the air conditioning higher-but that would take away the bundle, the cocoon of blankets going up to her face and wrapping around her like a spider's web to its prey. She moves with it, like a butterfly escaping. "I've seen you act. You just have one problem, y/n. Just one, and once you get over that you'll be better than Theo already."

It is only natural for her to have seen you act. You might be performing together, after all. You might. It all depends on whether Theo will fall sick, or have some sort of problem with his acting coming up. It is only natural, and yet you feel your cheeks burn up to your ears at the very mention. She's seen you act, act out those ridiculous scenes with all your heart. As much as you were reluctant to do this before, you agree. You are truly earnest about this now. You want to do this with your heart.

"So, what's the problem? Also, you're going to overheat if you keep bundling in those blankets like that," you start to brush the blankets off her, peeling them off like layers, unwrapping a ribbon on a present. She hisses at you and pulls the blankets back up, further curling into them.

"Your room is cold! Really, really cold. Like antartica levels of cold!" It is only now you notice that she has slight goosebumps on her thighs, that are still peeking out. But still....

"It's not that cold! Besides, you didn't even answer my question!"

"That's not fair! I can't help you if I'm going to freeze to death first!"

You pretend to ponder this, sarcastically acting genuinely worried for her. She scowls at you, lurching for the remote that you quickly snatch away from her grasp. You hold it above your head, where you're certain she can't reach, especially with her being all covered up in blankets like that. She quickly realises the same and settles for scowling and smacking your shoulders. This is something you can leverage, you think.

"Alright, for everything you help me with today, I'll up the temperature by one degree,"

Her eyes widen, but she quickly composes herself again. She huffs and sends you one last scowl. "Fine, but you lower it first. I'll help you after you lower it."

You have your first question, so you ask her. She eyes the remote, and you grudgingly press the button to up the temperature by one. It doesn't even make a difference, but Sophia seems satisfied enough. Probably because she doesn't even feel anything under all those layers of hers. "So, what was my problem? You still haven't answered."

She sighs as if you're asking her to reconstruct the great wall of China, such a weary task, and you eye her. If there's one thing you've learned from Mrs Carla, it's how to give her a look. She shoots up immediately, shuddering slightly. "What the fuck? Did she teach you that?"

You don't answer, simply continuing to shoot her the same look that you've received thousands of times now.

"I think it's because you see them in third person. Like, as in, Tony is separate from you. But you are Tony now, you are him. You think like 'Oh, Tony would do this-' or 'He would act like this-', but he's not the only thing that would influence your character," she pauses for a moment, gauging your reaction. "Mrs Carla wants unique versions of the characters, so she wants you to portray your own character in the role of Tony."

How can you even do that? The two of you are separate things, one human, one fictional. It doesn't make sense to lump either together. You cannot put yourself in Tony's shoes. Sophia seems to sense your hesitation-she has always been able to do that, of course. Sometimes you regret feeding her so much of you that it seems she can predict your every action. Suddenly, she stands up, and walks to the door.

"Hey! What are you-" Why is she leaving? Why?

"Right! That's right! Now, what's the first line you saw when you see Maria?" She stops, turning around to face you again. She seems so satisfied, as if she's achieved something when you've barely muttered more than a few words. Has something already worked? Has her magic, her magical touch, her magical voice done something?

"Hey! What are you doing?"

Her smile slacks a bit, and she comes closer to you again.

"See, that's the problem. The first time you did it was perfect. It was you, very you. Don't think of the character, Tony. Remember, it's your own character in his situations. Not him," she crosses her arms, tilting her head to the side, as if asking you to try again. You have to say it ten more times minimum, constantly reminding yourself to forget the image of Tony you have in your head, and trying to think of what you would do instead.

Finally, after what feels like the thirteen time, and about to be your thirteen reason, she claps her hands together. She lets you go, finally, and it's only the first line. She's laughing and she's practically vibrating on her feet. She's so squirmy today that you wonder if it's because someone gave her caffeine again. Manon. Definitely Manon. You feel like you all have definitely learned your lesson for the last time you gave her caffeine, more than two years ago. Which just serves as a warning of how bad it had really been. You know, some people don't even have reactions to caffeine at all, and Sophia, Sophia is not one of those people. She's far onto the other end of the spectrum in fact, and you all should have suspected it, given her already hyper nature, but of course you all didn't.

It is the weekend, the one after the last few days of middle school ends, and you are nearly fifteen while she is still a long way from it. You both divert from your usual path of walking right to your house, making your way to the front gate of the school for once, maneuvering your way through the complicated tapping system. Which is why everyone avoided the front gate, you included, until today. Because Sophia saw one of Theo's other friends drinking a drink with whipped cream from one of those new stalls supposedly on the way from the front gate, and decided she needed to have it. She'd hyperfixated on it, and she'd spent the rest of the day talking to you about it, her hands and eyes all shining animatedly, the light dancing off her fingertips. It is only after you conquered the front gate, which you considered to be the biggest problem, does the biggest problem come. Sophia. Is indecisive. Extremely. "Which one should I get, y/n? Help me, choose one-"

"Sophia, it's your drink."

She pouts again, crossing her arms over her chest like a fuzzy toddler. "Fine!" You both somehow end up drinking the same thing, Sophia's just loaded with whipped cream on top and caramel. She blanches at the taste, the taste of the coffee you've ordered. You did tell her not to do the same as you did. She is adorable, sticking out her tongue slightly as if she could air the taste out of her tastebuds, but still pretending to enjoy it whenever you looked directly at her, not realising you could see her other reactions in the corner of your eye. Sighing, you check your wallet again. You have five dollars to spare. You mumble a lame excuse of needing to get some tissues from the counter, leaving Sophia sulking at the benches you've chosen to sit at. You order her an iced hot chocolate, one with extra whipped cream and caramel. Sophia likes to swirl the whipped cream until it's completely mixed into the drink, forming a marble, dream-like texture on the surface of the foam she creates. You lean against the counter after you fork over your final five dollars, until they call your name and you come to pick it up. You practically march over to the benches, and Sophia perks up. There are lights visibly turning on in her eyes and soon enough they engulf her pupil. You hand the drink over to Sophia, who grabs it and immediately tosses the other drink to the side. A feral Chihuahua, a small husky, is what she resembles.

"How'd you get the drink?" You can't really make out what she said, but you get the idea of it. She's trying to swallow and gulp down her drink while asking you this, suffering and ending up choking when the cold drink slinks down her throat.

"Oh, I-" your throat feels dry, despite you having drank something just seconds ago, your drink's straw barely inches away from your lips. Lips. Sophia has a white line of whipped cream and chocolate foam hovering just slightly above her full lips, and they're slightly parted like a half-closed window. She licks her lips, successfully getting the chocolate foam in one, leaving her lips like a mirror, images floating on the surface of their skin. "It was just a free drink since we were first-timers there,"

She seems satisfied enough with the answer, not that she was paying much attention. She's gulped down more than half her drink now, and it seems brain freeze just doesn't exist for her-it fits well with your theories, about how she's just too warm for the cold to affect her. Melting away like popsicles under the sun. On the way back after you've both dumped your drinks, Sophia seems a bit jumpier, and she's skipping about, but that is still such typical Sophia behavior you don't think much of it.

Until it's one in the morning, and she still can't sleep. You can hear she tossing and turning on the right side of the bed, and today she's thrown off the covers despite the temperature being low enough that you have one to your chest. Peeking your eyes open, you can see her pressing her eyelids down firmly, as if trying to force herself to sleep. You throw off your own covers, and you hear Sophia let out a gasp-then promptly muffle it because she probably thought you were still asleep. You roll over, and turn to face Sophia, sitting up on the bed. Her eyes are open now, and despite them being brown and the room dark, they seem almost amber. The colour of melted caramel to the brink of burning over.

"Can't sleep?"

She yawns, clearly tired. She sits up along with you, stretching her arms behind her head before nodding quietly. Her lashes flutter as she blinks twice to focus you into view. The shirt you've given her to wear is riding up on her stomach, the blankets she's thrown off herself just barely covering from the starting point of her navel to the rest of her legs. You snuggle closer to her, so that her head is resting on your shoulder again, and then you and her both lean back onto the pillows, her head still resting on your shoulder. It feels like a nail and hammer jamming her head into yours, sticking the two of you together as she tries to fall asleep again.

After a few minutes, the toll of her head onto your own shoulder is showing. You can feel it go numb, and you're almost certain it'll feel like a static beanbag in the morning. She still shifts about, not even close to sleeping, but her eyes remain shut. Her eyelids are perfect semicircles, and her eyelashes are curled up naturally. They curl up as if protecting the eyelids, guarding her sight from some great evil out there. She mumbles something again, when she feels her gaze on you, and you let your own head fall onto hers to hear the words spewed from her precious lips.

"Is it uncomfortable?" Her voice has a slight change in tone compared to the morning, now more light and flowing like a stream. She's getting sleepy. The words taken from her throat feel like pearls falling off a broken chain, every syllable falling and rolling away onto the ground. Each one equally as precious and priceless as the last. Every pearl, from the startings of her lungs to the ending of her tongue. Every sound, bigger pearls than the last, till she feels five meters away from you and breathing in static. Like her voice is coming from the hallway down the corner instead of right beneath you. She smells like you today, your shampoo again and her having used that expensive body wash you told her not to. So of course she did. Her scent is faint, but it's there, unlike her voice. She speaks like the earth is parting beneath her, her voice slowly slipping away into the gaps. Your shoulder is burning, and her head is falling into its craters and its valleys before landing into the canyon. Your muscles have been stretched over a tightrope, acting like your hands as they cradle her head and keep it stable.

"No, it isn't. Just sleep, Sol. Sweet dreams." Another whisper of a breath. Even the humming from the air conditioning was decibels louder than that. Still, her lips curl up, still slightly glistening.

"Sol? That's nice. Sun, right?" Her voice falls through the gap, tearing her away from you. It comes out like an afterthought, the last few grains slipping from her fingers, the few drops of water after she wrings the tap off. Sun. Yes. Speaking beneath you. Does that make you the sky?

She doesn't wait for your answer, simply taking your silence as acknowledgement. "Why Sol though? I didn't even remember it until you said it," and she pulls the blankets closer to her chin.

You smile and you laugh and you breath sunshine. Even one look from you is enough to change the course of someone's life. Your timeline runs on her. You know that it's eight in the morning when she appears on the doorstep, you know it's three in the afternoon when she jumps on you in school, running with Theo straight to their lockers to get their books before going. You know it's precisely one hour and thirteen minutes into today because of the way your nightlight, placed on Sophia's side, shines on her hair. It makes one full orbit during the night, much like the earth around the sun. You will tell yourself it was merely a coincidence that you bought it right after you met Sophia. The light circles her head like a halo, and you're reminded of your very first comparison of her. An angel, wasn't it? Now, you don't see how you could have forgotten. It goes up half her face, making her look like night and day. You know it's night when Sophia either climbs out your window and down the tree to her backyard, or when she jumps onto the right side of your bed again and scoops up all your blankets without question. Everything seems to close off in her presence, like a curtain being draped over them. The small blooms quivering and hiding away in presence of the blooming flower.

She holds your hourglass in her hand. She takes exactly forty-six seconds to tie her laces. She takes fifteen minutes minimum to shower with her mass of hair, and she takes about two minutes to fall asleep the moment she's comfortable, so the girl mumbling on your shoulder will become mute after about thirty more seconds.

"Why? You never answered me, y/n," her words are disappearing into the veil of mist, not behind it, but becoming it.

"...because they start with the same letter?" You look down for her reaction, but she's asleep, her cheeks dusted pink from the lights and her smile stuck on her face. Your shoulder finally collapses on itself, locking it into place, and you just know that you'll have torturous pain tomorrow. But the pain of it dissipates in the aftermath of what you've said. Can she tell? The moon has come out, and the sun is asleep. Can she tell? That's the third lie you've told her today.

She sleeps, and even then, you wake up first later that same day. Lights pools at the windows, and you think, as Sophia starts rubbing her eyes again, that there are two suns in the sky.

Unfortunately for you, Sophia doesn't seem to be resting anytime soon, unlike the time she took caffeine. Stupidly, you've left the remote to control the air conditioning on the bed, while you're now standing far from it. Sophia seizes the opportunity, and it's not even close. She's still sitting on the bed, she just dives to get it while you hit the edge of the bed. She presses to up the temperature five times, and suddenly the place feels like the Sahara.

"If you're going to keep the temperature that high, you might as well not switch on the air-con at all," you dive for the remote again, but she completely covers it with her body, and you're left fighting with her back, your fingers running down her spine. She tosses the remote behind the pillows, and before you can make a mad dash for it before the heat bakes you both, she throws one of the blankets that's been covering her while she luxuriously laid in bed while you were forced to recite your lines on the floor. Unfair. You rip the blanket off your head and throw it at the bed, hoping to aim at Sophia, but it lands flat. She has climbed onto the pillows near the headboard, and she's wielding the remote like it's a gun, pointing it straight at you. You jump onto the bed, balancing precariously on the mountain of blankets that Sophia's made, all lumped up together with the stuffed toys. You bet that she placed the silky blanket on top in hopes that you'd fall. You growl at her, shocked at the noise that comes out of your own mouth, like a feral dog, and lunge at her, to which she easily jumps off the pillows, evades you, and moves to the other side of the room, still pointing the remote right above your eyes, to your forehead.

"Tony, drop the gun. Look at me!" She finally brings the 'gun" to her side, letting her arm swing and lock behind her back. She's reciting her lines along now, and her eyes are telling you to play along with her.

You make a gesture with your two fingers to resemble a gun, bring it over to cross your chest, and advance forward to her. "No, Maria, I cannot-step aside, Maria. You do not need to get involved in this cross-fire," there is a pained expression on your face, one resembling guilt and a lump in your throat forms naturally. Tony-no, you, are going to have to kill your love's friends and family. Guilt. Is that what you'd feel? What you'd feel towards Maria if you took away your family? Die. You'll becoming a murderer, and that thought alone sends shivers down your neck to wrap and quiver around your nerves, pressing down and making your fingers around your supposed gun to tremble. These are instinctual reflexes, you truly are Tony as of this moment. Your breath hitches, feeling the sun of the desert that the musical is set in, as well as Maria in front of you. Your steps towards her get smaller, shorter, as the mass in your throat starts to choke you. You stop, a meter away from her, your gun shifting from her shoulder to her heart.

"Please, Maria, please move. You do not need to get hurt, love. You can run, this is not your fault," The harsh wind, the sand blows into your eyes. It prickles them, sticking to your lashes and sending shots of pain through your eyes. You cock the gun, loading it before positioning it again, straight to the center of her heart. Maria's curls fly across her shoulder in the wind, yet her eyes remain determined and on you. She stands proudly, almost. Not wavering. She is the one unarmed, and yet, she acts nothing of it. Even though you know, you know one shot from Tony-no, you-will have her bleeding out on the ground within minutes. She does not give. If anything, Maria steps closer, throwing her hair to the front, as if walking down the aisle of a fashion rather than closer to the shooting range, her now mere inches away from her death. You hesitate, your hands failing you. The gun falls to the floor between the both of you, still locked and loaded. You curl in on yourself, Maria gasping aloud when the thud is heard.

"Maria, I can't do this-why must you risk it all for them? They are not worthy, darling. Please, I beg you, I cannot-I will not, shoot you," the gun has dropped, and yet Maria does not dive for it. Her eyes go half-lidded, as if thinking of something beyond the situation. She steps forward, voice brushing past your ears, her hair brushing the skin of your cheek, as they seem to curl around her face and the wind seems to brush the top of her head. The world blurs around you as the sandstorm approaches, as Maria's brother seems to go invisible, calling the other members for more backup. This was your one chance, and you couldn't take it. The gun is still at your feet, there is still a chance.

"These are my family. What makes you think I would drop everything, all I have, just because of someone like you? You've missed your chance now. You'll be dead by dawn. Were you really so certain that I'd give in to a bastard like you? I know what you did, Tony," Maria chokes it out in one breath, already starting to move away, to retreat back into the family shelter. The guns and horses will be at you in a moment. But something rips the threads of your heart open, rips your throat and takes the words right out of them yourself. Her eyes are glassy clear and her hands are in front of her, guarded. You are dead, she's made that clear. You realise it, too. The sun is setting. Within minutes, you'll be surrounded and tied with their ropes and whipped with their lashes. She turns to leave, all so certain of your fate.

Tony is a coward, you know. You've read the script, you've seen the movie. He leaves. He should turn and run for the hills. Maria will then move away, and lie her heart out that it was merely a mirage-a lie that, if caught, will get her cast out and otherwise killed by the penalty of fifty shots. Maria, oh, Tony's Maria. She should turn around right now and ask Tony to leave. Even as she's risking her own, she still wishes for him. Prays for him. Tony is much too pathetic for someone like her. Tony is a coward. And you are Tony. It strikes you then, you know. The Tony you've been playing this whole scene has been a coward. But he hasn't always been, has he? He's saved Maria from the bandits and protected her from his side of the gangs. So why? Why is Tony such a coward now? Why, when faced with the sun setting and the gun on the floor, does Tony hesitate? This is not in the script. This is you. You are a coward, you've made Tony a coward. It slips into his skin and you see through his eyes. He is suddenly two heads shorter with hair that falls to his waist. The gun is still at his feet. He is too much of a coward to pick it up, and shoot Maria to achieve his goal. He is too much of a coward to shoot the woman he loves.

The lump in your throat feels real for a second, and you can see your vision swimming between the harsh sand of the desert and the room with the blankets still behind you. It feels as though you are truly in the sandstorm. You heave, your palms gripping the ground, hard sand clumping and falling from the gaps between your fingers. You get to your feet, in front of the silhouette of Maria, who is leaving. You, you get to your feet and dash-and you catch Maria's shoulder, you catch her shoulder before she disappears again into the mist. The yellow mist, a whirl of sand, one that closes in on you every minute. Maria gasps, and yet, she turns again. Eyes red and lips pale. You can feel the sand, the wind eating at the fabric of your skin. You sink to your knees, in awe of the woman in front of you, the one whose tears are falling past her chin and melting into the sand. Melts and seeps into your soul. There is nothing more in the distance.

"Maria, am I not part of that everything?" There is pure defeat in your voice, at her knees, as you gaze down, and yet, it comes out as a tease. "Maria, will you run with me? We'll grab the horses and be gone within minutes," stay with you, is what they scream. Is what you scream. It is not written in the skies, the sand, or in the lines. It gives you a glimpse of what the parasite has made of your heart. Of what it has fed on, sewed up and attached to. It slips through the stitches, the carefully done stitches that you and her have put together. The adlib. It is an adlib.

The brother comes back. The sand is gone. And so is Maria, saying her line before disappearing into the shelter. Tony runs for the hills, the gun still on the floor, loaded for however picked it up next. Tony runs, but you are there. The sandstorm is there, and Maria is there-even though she had gone minutes ago. She comes closer, gun in hand, gun off the floor, presses it against her chest. Shoot, she mouths, her tongue moving with the motion. Shoot me, the words unfurl.

The skies unfurl, too. The red and the yellow turn into something of the darkest blue. The ground sinks and the sand turns into hard, hard ground, and the hot winds turn into cold, shivering ghasts. Instead of sand prickling your eyes, a snowflake falls onto the tip of your nose. The world forms around you both, the points of an open gate forming, and the open doorway. The snowflakes continue falling, landing without a shiver on Maria's hair and body. You can hear the sound of a car engine revving. You can hear the cries of a small child. Maria's hands climb to the sides of your head, turn your head around like a doll. She locks you into position, the gun still against her. The snow continues to fall. It builds on the ground and covers the black road with white. It covers you, stains the gate and paints it white. From the very corner of your eye, you can see flashing reflections of greens and red lights, and then a sudden switch as they disappear from the walls. Her hands slither to your eyes, covering them, as if shielding you from something. But it's not use, is it? You saw the lights. You know where this is. The lights coming back seconds later proves you right again.

The ground isn't the only thing turning cold. It sneaks into your skin too, and Maria-Maria still has the gun. You need to get her to drop it. Maria never died in the musical. But to never told her that, either. You didn't stick to the script. It's hard to move. The car moves. It's there. It leaves and there's tire tracks in the fresh patch of snow and more comes down to cover it up. The snow melts beneath your feet, drips upwards into your eyes and falls again. Maria's hands are around you, her head on your shoulder and she's suffocating. It's so cold and she's freezing. Her skeleton collapses in, sticks to your skin. She sticks to you, clings to you and you can't get her off. Your cheeks and wet and sticky with the melted snow and mix of your tears. It is freezing. Your teeth chatter together, feeling the cold barrel at the end of the gun you know, you just know that Maria is holding. Why, why this? How could she know of the driveway, of all places? You've never told anyone, and you're certain Theo can barely remember it. Mom never mentions it. The snow swirls into bits in the air, and this is where everything looks like the canvas of her eyes. And all within a flash, it happens again. The revving sound of the car comes back. The car is still in the driveway, is pulling away slowly. The piercing screams of the child in the house. The open doorway. Maria's hands continuing to slide further down your neck, the gun in either one. The ground is still black, only the first drops of snow falling, yet to blanket the ground. But the car pulls away again. The snow falls again. The ground is covered again, your shoes are covered and wet with melted snow again and you cry again, scream your throat hoarse as the barrel shivers behind your ear. Maria. She's playing with the gun, twisting it between her fingers, as if it's not loaded and could snipe someone dead with one misclick. She eyes you as if she's waiting for you to ask her something, but you don't need to. You know what this place is. You don't need to ask why your mind brought you back here.

Feelings of despair, right? That's what Tony feels in that moment when he runs away for his life with Maria's group after him. What better way to show that than play through your own, shift through your own mind? The human brain is sick, sick at times. You want to laugh, your expression contorts as the tears keep falling. You smile, you laugh, the sounds coming straight from your chest while something hollow seeps below. It crawls through your body and finally, finally finishes your heart. The red and green lights flash again, and then off. Gone. Maria waits patiently, the gun twirling in an ever going circle. Something claws through and rests its head on your shoulder, taking up the space Maria once did. This is ages ago. This is years ago, this is locked and binded away. The snow can't be this cold. Your lips can't be this purple. Your finger tips can't be so blue. The car can't be this loud. The person driving the car away can't be your dad.

He's just going to go get more Christmas presents. He's just going to get some food. It can't be. He looks years older than he should at the moment. He should not have white hairs sticking out and an unshaved beard. He should only look like this in the future. He drives away, the gate opens, trampling the blanket of snow once again.

There should be red in your eyes right now, the gun shooting him in your hand. There should be everything you've missed, everything he's missed. You should be running to smash open his windows and punch him, strangle him, for leaving your lips purple and your feet like glass. There is none of that. There is something slipping through the cracks again. There are icicles piercing through your lungs. They are filling with snow. The church bell tolls. The digital watch on your wrist rings one, two, three. You should leave. You can leave. Just snap out of it. This is your mind.

Dad looks just as he would now. He's aged eleven years. The car goes away again, and you look at the man in the seat. The car goes away twice, and you look at the man in the seat. The car goes away thrice, and your gaze is locked on the man in the seat. The car goes away again and again, until he looks no more than a stranger. You don't recognise him after eleven years. He could be a random fellow bus passenger, a random market seller you'd meet on the street, and you'd have no idea. You cannot hate a simple stranger. It is much easier to hate than to miss. Hate doesn't require having loved them. Missing does. Once, eleven years ago, you loved your dad. You loved the way he turned off lights switches and the way that he'd let you eat candy with your brother while Mom wasn't watching. When he pulled out of the driveway, you loved the way that he'd always start the car before opening the gate.

Eleven years ago and one minute later, you hated him.

Maria. What she'd said to Tony. Before he ran. Of course, she'd loved him. That's the whole point of the musical, isn't it? But no, Maria is brave. She is perfect. She has defended her family like that for so long. Hating instead of missing isn't a coward's act, it can't be. You can't have been one since your birth. Are you just so much of one that you see it in everyone? You can't have been one before you met her, because she was the one that turned you into it, wasn't she? She was, she was, she was. She is the one that makes you so scared of what she'll react sometimes that you don't say anything. She is the one that has made you lose the ability to ask her to stay, purely because she always has. She has always stayed. You became a coward the day you met her, right?

The day you met your beloved devil.

She gave you that sin. She is a horrible person. She has fed on your heart and made it her own. She has made it so that your every word to her is like a prayer. She made it so that you were a vampire, so you didn't need the sun when you had her. She clawed your heart out of your chest and placed it, beating and bloody, on your shoulder. She placed her head on your shoulder. She burned every inch of your skin so that whenever she touched you, you flushed. She waited outside on the doorstep for you that day, so you'd be forced to ask her to stay.

She has taken control over the sun, so it'd always somehow illuminate her, so she'd never be shadowed. She'd charmed people on purpose, made then sinners, made them fight, so you'd let her cry into your sweaters.

She has replaced, she has changed your heart to an erratic one that beat and spiked whenever you saw her. Maria seems to quiver before you. Has she always looked this small and scared? Has the gun always been in your hand? Have you ever thought of shooting her?

Your fingers click on the gun as lightly as a foot on the snow. The bullet flies, the one loaded within it. Just one. Maria falls. The blood covers the snow. It's red now, matching with the flashing red lights. The car doesn't come back now. Blood leaks from everywhere but the hole in her chest that you've shot. Her eyes go unfocused. The snow turns from pure red to brown to black within seconds. The snow falls. Snowflakes land on her face and her soaked clothing, and they fall. They cover her face, as she gets smaller and her eyes get browner. They start to layer over her clothing, covering her hands, her legs, up to her chin. Her hair lays bloodied behind her. The blood around her is covered up by white. She is painted over, as if painting a ruined canvas to start over. Have her eyes always been that brown? Have her lips always been that red? Has Maria ever had swirls in her eyes?

The devil has died, then. The saints and the people of the earth and the heavens are cheering. It sets it fast enough.

Dig. Kick. Anything, anything to get her out of there. Your fingertips are turning black, your breath turning into mist. Your clothes are being soaked in red. Red, while the snow continues falling. It is building her a coffin, it is burying her above ground. Her chin goes under, and then her hair and then her beautiful brown eyes. The snow is up to your waist. You didn't even get to close her eyes.

Blink. In the distance, someone with her eyes and her hair and her body enters the driveway. But it isn't her. It might be her She is dead below your feet. She might be dead below you. Those brown eyes are of one of a million and that face is that of a billion. It doesn't mean that she's the one here, or the one there.

"You haven't told me your name yet!"

She is the one there. Blink, and the snow gives way to blue skies and fluffy clouds and the door halfway closed.

There is a whisper from your lips again. "y/n. y/n l/n,"

She looks up at you with confusion. "That's not your real name! I've heard Theo call you something else before-the nickname doesn't match. Trust me, I won't go telling anyone else! What's your name?"

"y/n l/n," you whisper.

She stomps her little feet in anger. "I told you, I know that's not your name! Why won't you tell me your name?"

"What did Theo call me?"

What did Theo call you when you were younger?

Blink. The remote is in Sophia's hands, and you are on the ground. She has the same face and the same eyes of the devil buried in the snow in the driveway. She is as beautiful as ever.

"Woah, you adlibed...I'm not sure how Mrs Carla would take it. I felt it was pretty good, though. You really felt like Tony," she is pacing around the room, still gathering the rest of her thoughts-until she shifts her gaze to you. Concerned. "You really spaced out for a while just now, you know? Are you sure you're ok? Maybe you're tired, I told you not to go through with the literature club,"

"I'm fine, Sophia, really," in your eyes, she is bleeding on the ground. "Let's do the next part now."

If cowardice wasn't your sin, dishonesty would be it.

You both flip through the rest of the script, both mouthing out small lines that you have, but mostly deciding which one of more important scenes you'll want to do today. There are a few. The balcony scene, the confession of love, the scene where they first meet. Sophia is a romantic. You flip to the pages of the confession scene even before it leaves her mouth. It is awkward at first, getting into position, but Sophia starts her lines anyway with pink on her face.

"You know, there is no reason you should be here. They'll always come after you, you know that." Maria walks up towards you.

"I don't mind. I have never minded, Maria," it comes out forced. You honestly can't believe these words are coming from your mouth. The desert turns back into the room when Maria whacks you over the head with a gun, which turns out to be Sophia with the remote.

"What was that, even? In Mrs Carla's words," Soph made an exaggerated accent and with her fingers pointing at you in perfect imitation of her. "There was no real character in that! You need to feel it" She looks at you, and in less than a second she changes back to Sophia. "You're not feeling it. You're in love with Maria, you know. You're in love with me,"

She brings herself closer to you as she says it. "You're in love with me, remember that, alright?"

Love. Act like you're in love with Maria. Like you're in love with someone. You can love, you don't doubt that. You love Theo, you love mom, and sure, you can love Maria. But romantic love is much more different. You cannot love Maria the way you love Sophia. Sophia is the only one you can love differently. She has always been different. Theo loves her too, after all. There is always one thing that the two of you can agree on. You love her. See, why was that so easy to say?

She is playing Maria after all, it shouldn't be too hard. When you open your eyes again, it is Sophia there, standing in the harsh heat of the desert with you, rather than the curly brown locks of Maria. The sand is shooting around both of you again, and Sophia shouldn't find it so easy to dodge it. She just seems to weave around it. Of course. She continues on with the next line seamlessly. There is not a single season that doesn't suit Sophia perfectly. Even in the harsh heat of the desert, the flush that appears on her cheeks because of it suits her well. Every does, doesn't it? You go up to her side, already slightly kneeling down due to height difference, and also to allow her to lay her head on your shoulder.

As she predicts, the next few lines are easy to say. They are natural. You think nothing of what she said. Remember that you love her. There is no other meaning for you. You don't need to remember. She has taken too much of your heart already; it could no longer be yours. There is too much of her, and nothing left of you, your heart will never be put back together. Maybe it hasn't been yours since the door. Maybe it hasn't been yours since she stepped on your door. Maybe it hasn't been yours the moment she looked at you, and you saw her eyes. It is easy to say that you love Sophia. She probably wonders what changed. She can't know that you have always pictured her eyes on Maria's. You will never say that.

You will do everything for her but tell her you love her. Because you don't, because that's Theo's role and because you've sworn on lesson one. Don't break people's hearts, and most importantly of all, don't break Theo's heart. You've noticed his room anyway. He's preparing something big for her. It is clear that Sophia will say yes to him. He's been a big, blundering idiot around her recently and unless they were blind anyone would be able to tell that he liked her. It will be easy for Sophia to say she loves him back, because she has. She does. You are not blind. She has always been his best friend. They were always going to be together eventually. Always. Since the moment he befriended her. Since the moment they were in the same class together. When they drew lots for seating partners every year, and without fail, Theo and Sophia would be together. They would do group projects together, in Theo's room, and then Sophia would come over and sleep in your room if she wanted to sleepover due to her complaining that Theo's bed was messy. Not that yours was any better.

She steps into the alcove of your heart. The door was wide open for her. How could you forget? You have never forgotten her, even for a second. Even if they were to remove her name from your lips, it would still be in your veins, carved into your bones. It is so damn easy to say the lines now. So damn easy. You light a candle for her, in the chamber of your heart. It burns. Her eyes shine in the dark due to the dim flame and you never put it out. It catches fire, sets the curtains aflame but her eyes have always remained shining. She leaves her voice in the windows, her scent in the air. Every part of this place afterwards rings of her laughter. The floor has been personally molded to her feet. Not even you can enter any more, you'd trip on the steps. Mispronounce the creaks of the floorboards. You have built a shrine, a room, a hole in your own heart for her before she even finished speaking. It rains, there is a downpour when she leaves. Of course. The blood pools into the chamber and cleans it out, the curtains and the scent and her sound. It rains. Your blood knows better than you do how to say goodbye.

What else could I love you mean? Really, what else could it mean?

You get on your knees, bending down in front of Sophia. "Maria, I...I'm sorry. I'm sorry, if this is too late."

There is a pause.

You can only love Maria because you love Sophia. Is that right? But you don't. You don't. You lost that chance before you even got it, the moment the universe made Sophia and Theo meet. For the first time, you want to believe in coincidences. That it was a coincidence that you opened the door that day and saw her. Purely a coincidence. If it was planned, you truly are the most unfortunate soul in the world. Who loses someone before they can even get them? Who makes someone do that?

Tear down the curtains, sweep the floors and change the floorboards of the chamber. Repair the indent in your shoulder. Replace your heart. You twirl her around so that her feet just barely graze the ground and she feels that she's flying; you tell yourself that it's because you wish to serve her for her enjoyment, but you lie-you just wish to see her eye to eye with you, and her hands grasping your waist, holding tight as if you're cradling her to sleep. On the right side of the bed, as usual. And the background melodies serve as lullabies as we rock and sway, and you put her down and wonder how much of a doll-like beauty she is. When they play slurs you find yourself spinning her, and when the violin bows reach their ends you find her face to face with me. You would've composed thousands of melodies just for Soph, just for that moment. For the moment that she looks up at you, her lightly dusted with pink, and you're the one that she looks at, with the chandelier betraying both your shadows. It is a dance. Just a dance. The chandelier betrays the colours of the sunset.

The cello starts to play. It has low notes but just one string lower. They play their staccato in little jumps, matching your heartbeat. The bass follows.

Her swirls in her eyes. She is the girl that belongs to the sky. That's probably where they got the saying from, you'd bet. The swirls of her eyes are the silver linings of the clouds. Silver lining in every situation, the very best part. The silver lining of your life, silver. How can you not love someone like that, y/n?

Everyone will love someone that resembles an angel. It means nothing. Too much of something is nothing. So, no. It is equivalent to the idea that two negatives make a positive.

You can briefly remember that. It must have been taught to you sometime in middle school, maybe only really drilled into your head in the very last year of it. Perhaps your least memorable year of middle school, the only thing popping into your head when you think of it being Theo asking Sophia to the graduation dance. It is a small ceremony for a small school, but all the parents chipped in. You remember watching Theo slouch as he watched yet another person ask Sophia to the dance, only for Sophia to turn them down. Everyone else had just walked up to her and asked, getting turned down instantly with barely a blink. It seemed that Theo thought he could secure his chances by doing something more.

But it's not like he needed to. She was waiting for him to ask her, of course. Theo has always been a bit blind when it came to Sophia, but you really thought he'd realise soon enough after she'd rejected practically every guy in class but him. So, no. Your poor twin brother, blind as he might be, was struggling to ask his beautiful best friend to go to a dance. And he had his own fair share of problems, too. He was getting asked, too. Funny how they both had the exact same problems yet both were blind to their own. They are so much of the same person that they are symmetrical to each other. Their lives mirror the others. If Sophia had broken a bone when she was nine, Theo broke one too. Both the exact same one, too. Their index finger. They also both proceeded to use their middle fingers to point while in recovery period.

You do not love Sophia Laforteza.

Sophia wishes that she really was a psychic sometimes, many having a telepathic connection to your mind. There are so many things left hanging, barely-just by a thread, and yet, the wind does not come to take them to fall. They hang there precariously, and she watches, she waits for even the slightest breath for the fall. It does not come, but it feels so, so close to the edge. One of those things she wishes to ask you is simple. Were you lying, that night when she fell asleep on your shoulder, that it didn't hurt? Because she's almost certain it did. You did not do a good job of hiding it.

Then again, another one of those things that she wishes to ask you is far more difficult. Do you love her? Knowing you, you'd say yes and brush it off as nothing else. But she can tell. She has never seen you like the way you act around her with any of your other close friends. She's certain you never fed candy to either Manon or Megan or Dani through the slips of your fingers, letting her lick your fingertips dripped with honey. She's certain that you've never written letters, poems like that to any of them. You say that she can't keep secrets and yet she's kept this one for so long.

Oh, she knows Theo didn't write that poem to ask her for middle school graduation. Theo doesn't have such beautiful words to spill from his lips. No one in her life has been able to command words like this. She recognises it is you the moment that she reads the first sentence and the 'z' has a line through it. She recognises it is you by the way the writing flows, by the slight curls of the 'y's and yet the almost straight 'j'. It is a poem full of pretty words. Words that Theo would use, believable enough, but not yours. Words that are not yours, because she's never heard you use the word 'pretty' by itself alone, her whole life. It has always been accompanied by something else, a superlative, a comparative, as if you always wish to say something above and beyond that. It is not enough for something to merely be pretty.

You remember helping Theo write the poem. The words for her, to describe her, overflow and drown easier than you would like to admit. There are far too little words to describe her and yet every single one pours out of your lungs.

She knows how to act because of you. She stays, she retains her own because of you. There is always a part of you that she's stolen from your heart, sewn and stuck into a little pocket of her own, that keeps her there. She is so much of herself around you that she'd argue she is not the same person around anyone else. It is as if her words and her smiles are reserved for you with the matching swirls.

She is not a fan of double meanings. She is direct, first and foremost. At least, that's what she tells herself before she realises. She thinks she's in love with you. And then, everything but courage comes. The hollow pit in her stomach swallows all her words and her cheeks burn like the sun whenever she tries. She has not been able to say it directly ever since she's realised that. Her lips betray everything, but do not allow those words to slip from her tongue. It is as if their very syllables are suppressed, the way that knots form and gnaw at her throat whenever they try to escape. Sometimes her heart beats so incredibly loud, she's surprised she doesn't have two of them. The times her heart swells when she tries. It grows with every time she fails, collecting all the fallen words and the feelings, all behind lock and key. She doesn't dare to open the door. She will never be able to fit anything back together again. But she has to. She is running out of places to keep the words. They gave clogged up her arteries and frozen her veins. They have latched onto her nervous system and started filling up her throat. Those very same words are building to the very roof of your mouth, and it feels as though the very act of opening it, simply parting her lips, and the mountain will bubble over and spill. She gulps it down, feels the stings in her stomach and the pit opening up again.

But they still build up. It feels like flowers sprouting in her lungs, constantly imagining your presence through your scent and seeing your swirls overlap hers whenever she glances at her reflection. A part of you she will take till death. She has told you this multiple times. She will tell you that you're the luckiest thing that ever happened to her, she will say it within a breath. Her tongue twists itself into flower crowns and she feels the scent of your backyard and those plants on your windowsill on her tongue.

The hockey game makes her feel differently. You called yourself a coward. She wishes to laugh at the irony. She acted like one in front of you just minutes earlier, at half time. She is worse than you, in so, so many ways. She has known she has loved you since the moment she turned fourteen on the very last day of the year. She has known she has loved you for over a year, closer to two, and she has not yet managed to force those words out. The hockey stadium, where the lights shining in from behind the windows at the very corners, and the lights seeping in from the smallest gals beneath the doors to the exits. Your hair, which she has turned into a messy looking braid with a peony and a small forget-me-not at the very end. She'd braided in the peony for good luck.

She'd braided in the forget-me-not as her first 'I love you'. You mentioned it, and her heart sends itself into static when you ramble again about flower language. She knew. She knew that you've always been interested in flower language. She wanted you to know. Part of her wishes that you'd taken the flower seriously. What is she saying? She planted that in the bouquet in hopes of it. A mix of blue and yellow, just laying under the guise of being for you and for the team. So she had a safety net, so there would always be other meanings to it. So that there would be other meanings, so that you'd pick up on them and assume so. It is stupid, she knows. She wishes to tell you and yet she wishes for you to think otherwise.

It is stupid, she agrees as she sits back on the bench. It is absolutely stupid how stunning you look with that braid.

In total, she has confessed to you three times. That is her very first confession. It goes about as well as she expects. She didn't even dare to put a rose.

Perhaps something more fitting would have been a lily. Even though she's given you sunflowers, you could be anything but. They face the sun, but you couldn't possibly look at yourself like that unless you constantly had a mirror.

She does admit to wearing that particular shade of blue more often afterwards. It is also the first time that the words piled up to her throat spill out, in the form of a small flower in your braid and a drink from the store you both constantly went to. She is holding a candle she lit herself, and the wax drips onto her fingers and smothers her finger prints. She holds the candle, lets you blow it out again, and again, and the wax drips onto her fingers and burns them, destroys the finger prints yet another round. But it doesn't matter. They grow back anyways, and your smile melts even the harshest of things. It cannot be a coincidence that she never gets caught in a snow storm with You-she's gotten into at least five with Theo alone. Your smile must be that warm, able to melt snowflakes within a five meter radius of yourself.

So, for her first time breaking open the shell of her heart, she fails. But it doesn't matter. She has built up many others over the years, all stuffed to the brim from the moment on the playground.

Her second confession is possibly worse. Her third, even more. She chooses double meanings, every form of evasion possible, every gap for escape from the meaning of it. She sets mouse traps and yet leaves the cages open.

But she sleeps in your bed more than in her own. Her clothes take up more than half your closet. Your mother knows the exact position to place the fork on her plate whenever she comes over. There are stones piling up at the very bottom of the lake, and she keeps them. Collects them, till the day she can throw them at the glass house that is her own heart. It will shatter in an instant, and it reminds her of the questions she has hanging for you. Just one blow. When it finally shatters and cuts her veins, to release every single word that she's formed while looking at your eyes in the windows of the car, she hopes it will be an ending that rivals that of the sunset of the day.

The rest of the lines go as expected. All the 'I love you's, she says. She has no problem with the acting, as there is no Tony in front of her. It is you dressed in some seriously outdated cowboy attire that hangs off your body. She is not acting. She hasn't been, in just any scene around you. She finds that she doesn't need to act that she loves you if she truly does too. She adores the way you sound, she likes the way you tend to hiss at every minor inconvenience. It is so far from the Tony of the movies and musicals. In those moments, it is not Tony and Maria on the stage but rather you and her. And quite frankly, she'd rather have that. Another thing she'd rather have is your lips on hers rather than Theo's.

Your smile is warm enough that she bets your mouth is warmer. Oh, the words are building up in her throat again. She has to say something.

You are packing up the area after practice, Sophia saying that she has to leave today to eat dinner with her family. Which means that she won't be lying on the right side of the bed, and yet, you still only touch the left. Which means that she won't be standing over, won't be using the bathroom to shower, and yet there's already a tooth brush waiting for her on the sink countertop. The pink one of course, with the yellow one in the yellow cup. The air is different today. You are not used to it. Around Sophia, it's always the same. It's the smell of shampoo and whatever she baked the other day, destroying your kitchen as she went about it. She's an excellent baker, doesn't mean she's not a baker. Today, the smell of shampoo has faded leaving behind only that of buttercream and chocolate.

The walk down the steps, she knows it. You shouldn't be following her. She knows the way down so well that her every fingertips are engraved, embossed into the railing and the walls. She knows this house as well as you do, and yet you can't shake the feeling that something is off.

I love you, she had said, in the heat of the desert and under the blanket of sand. I love you, not as Maria, but as Sophia. She was the one that appeared to you. But it is Maria, and those are lines. It is only natural for you to assume Sophia in her position, as she is playing Maria. Your brain finds every loophole, every gap between the curtains and takes it, reasons worming in to cover and stitch up the original.

Something off. As you near the door step, you don't want her to go again. She stays three times every week, she has stayed none this whole week. Stay, but you won't say that. Your fingers hesitate on the door knob before turning it and pushing the door open, and your eyes linger on the first door step outside. The lump comes back into your throat to choke you, the parasite now beating as your own heart.

Sophia fastens the last button of the jacket that she never brought here, stepping outside into the sky. The sun is still up, despite it being late. It is the perfect time to cast wishes into the horizon.

Really, you must love her. That's what Sophia tells herself. But that is not what causes the words to pierce her tongue and speak for themselves. It is the sky, the very same sky that cast itself over the world when you met. So she tells herself it is fate. It is fate that the thorns finally kill the blooms and that everything she's ever had of you shatters at once. The lake finally floods the land. The pebbles fill the whole bottom of it. The blood floods her brain and her every system fails at once. She is at this exact same moment, just five or six years back, in another timeline. So why would things go any different?

There are so many jokes she can play. Maybe she should ask you your name again.

The sun from that day turned your skin bronze, she recalls. There was grime and dirt covering your hands and under your nails. Your hair was messy and tangled up from running and hiding under the slide. Your eyes clouded over, matching with the absence of blue in the sky. It is none of your colours that day. The leaves from the tree next to your house had landed on your head seconds ago, so light that you didn't notice. Adorning you a bit like a crown. She had tripped and narrowly avoided a splinter when she stayed back on the doorstep, pushing her closer to you. Is it really that stupid to believe that your meeting was one of fate?

She didn't fall for you at fourteen. The doorknob shouldn't have been that warm, when she was nine. Her cheeks shouldn't have been that red, which is why you joked about calling her red at first. She shouldn't have lingered on your doorstep after, there were no meanings for that. There are no other meanings this time. As if she was tied to you around the wrist, she'd keep getting sucked to that doorstep. All she remembers is thinking that your hand was so incredibly warm, when it was her own. When it was her own eyes casting lights on you, and not the shadow of the sky. When it is her very own words that spill out, not the ones building in from her throat.

She has made four confessions in total. Her first being the very first time she met you.

The turn of the doorknob feels like the tightening of the noose around your neck. She fidgets behind you, and you finally unlock the door. The lights that streamed in from the open windows are the same as those above you. The lights pool like raindrops and fall onto every inch of her skin. When she does a little spin as she moves out the door, you experience a full cycle orbit. Wrap around her, like how a flower wraps its pollen buds. Her heart is still on her sleeve, instead of neatly tucked in between her ribs and in front of her own spine. You thinks yours will still beat on February 30th.

The door closes gradually, slowly, as if in a show for dramatic prose. You watch as your view of her eyes die slowly, slowly, and stop. The blinds refuse to cover the lights. Forget-me-nots bloom around the corner. There is not a sunflower in sight. You bark at the brink of light, die like an euthanized dog. You bite as though you wish for the whip. You wait for punishment. For what? You wait for the recoil of the strikes and for the lashes to cease.

You wait for the skies to show its sun. You wait, but it has dissipated into the earth. For one moment, there is one sun on earth. For one moment, you believe that myth is true.

The tip of her tongue feels like velvet. She bites down on the same apple that Eve does. She buries her heart over and over into the dirt, but it comes out with a forked tongue and whispers once more. You cock the gun of your eyes, and she makes it easy to shoot.

She has always been one to be direct. You cock the gun, but it is not you that shoots first.

"I love you," is what comes out. Not any of the words that have been choking up her lungs for the past years. Not anything plucked from the stars and kissed by the moon. Three words, all of them that you've learnt before you two met. Love applies so easily to you. It applies, stays, and never lets go. It is a sin of the skies that you still look sun-kissed even in the absence of the cause.

Your hands lie on the doorknob. The door doesn't widen further, the door does not close either. It stays in that precarious zone between yes and no. She comes bare without a single rose and just the words from her lips.

She has been in your life since she was nine, ten, eleven, and till she would turn seventeen. You have almost known her for as long as you haven't. And it is the almost. The almost. The door. Almost close, almost open. There is no telling in which way it will go.

"Sophia, we're done rehearsing, you know," the tease spills from your lips. You are escaping through the gap in the door.

"You know I don't mean that."

Of course she doesn't. She hasn't since the flowers in your hair.

"You know what I mean. What else is there to think?"

The sun approaches the end of the sky. Her voice is your delirium.

She has truly trapped you into a corner. You do not say anything. This is not the language of the flowers, where every one has at least a dozen meanings and everything in between. This is not the language of brushing of hands, of her breath on your ear, of her head on yours.

She hates your literature classes, hates all your fancy words that seem to soil your throat and sprout roses among your tongue. She cups her hands around your ear, leaning in. She is so much shorter than you. You find yourself bending down closer to the ground out of pure reflex for her. You almost freeze in place. Her breath is hot against your ear.

She hates your literature classes. She hates that you've learned so much of the language that we speak. She hates that you say everything but the three words we've learnt since we were young. Not everything has to be complicated, she just wants those three.

I'm sorry.

You think of her, you think of your brother's best friend. You think of her braiding flowers into your hair as your brother's best friend. You think of her love to you as to her best friend's sister.

Even trapped in the corner, you find a way to escape. There is nothing else I love you can mean. Even like this, you still are

She laughs for a moment, but there is nothing in it. It is a hollow sound. Her eyes are vacant, almost. Those are only two words, her eyes tease you. Add one more. Make it three. The words finally fall off her throat. It is not her own. It is the ones that have been building themselves up. They are not for her, they are for you.

You're a coward, Gabi.

Ah. So that is what your brother always called you.

They swim up her throat and latch onto your skin. Gabriela, you're a coward.

On the twentieth of June, she steps off your doorstep. That same day, you keep your promise that you made to yourself, eleven years ago.

You cause a solar eclipse on the twentieth of June, six years after you discover the second sun of the world.

425 notes · View notes