Written in the Margins

________

I saw her walk into the room, and the way her feet strike the ground demands attention; her presence insists on being acknowledged. But no one else seems to get the memo. 

As I slowly lift my gaze, expecting others to be staring too, I realize no one else is looking. 

She brushes her hair aside, silky strands slipping with effortless grace. My eyes find hers and my breath catches in my throat. I cough, trying to remind my lungs how to inhale and exhale. 

Then—blinding light. So bright I bet the sun’s jealous. Who dares threaten my position as bringer of warmth? The sun, probably. 

“Hello.” 

Again, I’m blinded. My mouth goes dry. 

My tongue, a traitor, makes me stammer. 

But then her voice softens, like rain against a window. “Is this seat taken?” 

My heart pounds against my chest, desperate to escape. “No, go ahead.” 

She sits. Suddenly, the book I was reading isn’t half as interesting as I thought. Her eyes lift to mine as she takes a sip from the bottle in her hand. 

I realize I’m staring, but how could I not? 

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she teases. 

“I’m sorry, but… you’re beautiful.” 

She pauses. Something gentler replaces the brightness in her expression. 

“Why would you say that?” She sets her phone down, eyes narrowing—not offended, just curious. 

I swallow, nervous; warmth seems to be replaced by clouded skies and a cold breeze. 

“You’re an early sunrise—the moment when dew clings to skin and the sun, still gentle, tries to warm what the night hasn’t let go.” 

My ears feel blessed as I hear rain pattering on top a lake. 

“What are you, a poet or something?” She said as her laugh settles. 

Heat floods my cheeks as if I stared too long at the sun. 

“No—nothing like that,” I say quickly. “I’ve got this bad habit. I speak before I think.” 

Her smile curves upward. 

“Well, that’s a lot of lyricism for someone who’s not a poet.” 

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Maybe I’m just inspired.” 

The bubble around us bursts at the sound of my name. 

“Hot vanilla latte for Nicole.” 

I walk to the counter, grateful for the interruption, and grab my coffee. The cup burns slightly through the cardboard sleeve. When I return, I pack my things into my tote bag that reads Free to be Kind. 

Before I can slip away, a soft ripple tugs at me— 

“Nicole’s a pretty name.” 

I glance up, caught off guard by the sincerity in her eyes. My grip falters—my book slips from my hands, landing with a soft thud I barely register. All my attention latches onto her instead. 

“Ha—thanks. Thanks.” 

Heat rushes to my ears; I suddenly realize that I didn’t brush my hair or put on perfume. Every nerve in my body screams at me to leave before I say something too soon to say or think. 

“Well…I should be going…” 

My words trail off. My steps hit the floor too fast, like punctuation I didn’t mean to use. 

The bell above the café door jingles as I push it open. Cool air hits my face. I breathe easier outside, like finding shade right when the sun is at its peak. 

And then—an inevitable, almost painful thought settles in my chest. 

I’m never going to hear soft rain again.