Hello! This is the first chapter of my new book! Its on Wattpad, you can find me at @iespeciallyme1211, and the story's name is CRACK, told in 2 perspectives, Astra and Luna. hope you like it! Also, I'll only be posting the first 5 chapters here under #Crackiespeciallyme. The rest you're gonna have to read on Wattpad. And this is an actually book, so the chapters will be relatively long. Find all of it's details on Wattpad! Text me! Bye!
Details were aspects that mattered, mainly to people like Astra Revelion, who was a writer. Writers couldn't use images or live action role plays to convey what they wanted to say. They needed the essential tool of description, to paint the picture of the setting in the mind's eye of the reader.
Real life was a great practice, because whatever she saw, became a string of words in her head, noting every single detail, unable to surpass even the most minor element.
The white desk from IKEA made of a wood she didn't know the name of was attached to the plain gray wall with empty bookshelves, ghosts of books which were once there roamed. Like any IKEA desk, there were black and white drawers to the right side, leaving a gap for crossing your legs like a CEO wearing tights in a conference room, staring down her employees. The drawers contained multiple things she didn't want people to see, like notes of writing, artifacts of her deadly past, and a single platinum ring, with a name she didn't want to hear engraved on it. They were all locked, the key thrown in the back of her backpack, a place so messy even the Devil wouldn't want to go into it. A metal thermos painted with a white marble mural dripped cold condensation onto the desk, droplet threatening to inch toward the open MacBook.
"Oh, no you don't," She answered the droplets and wiped them clean with the sleeve of her oversize turtleneck, and carried the ice-cold bottle to the fridge.
Inside the fridge were a few other delicacies; a few indulgent pleasures she allowed herself from time to time, like a large bar of Hershey's, a tub of cookie and crème ice cream, and some nachos with tomato dip.
Placing the water bottle in the fridge, she scooped the tub into her arms and grabbed a large spoon and plopped down on the couch to settle down and read a heart-wrecking book before she had to go to her school and pick up her things from her locker.
She sighed when she realized she hadn't brought a book and lifted her body - which was suddenly heavy and tiresome to carry - to the room she called her library.
Lined with tons of bookshelves, the walls were invisible, books covering every possible surface: strewn on the ground, laid out in piles on the carpet, on the shelves, some on the window seat, light streaming out from the window. Every single book had sticky notes sticking out of the pages and bookmarks on favorite chapters.
Astra grabbed a favorite - To Kill a Mockingbird - and sat down to read.
Just as she flipped the book to the page when the trial happened (it was bookmarked with a red feather), her iPhone buzzed with it's signature ding.
Ms. Fell: School closing early. You need to get your stuff now
Astra: But you said it was open until 6!
Ms. Fell: Me being me, I forgot that it's SUNDAY
Astra: MS. FELL!
Ms. Fell: Astra, I'm sorry, but can you just come and get your stuff now?
Astra: Fine. I'm not lending you my Victorian Era printed copy of "The Women in White" anymore.
Ms. Fell: Now it's my turn. ASTRA!
Astra: I'm kidding, I'll grab it on my way there.
Ms. Fell: Yay!
Astra laughed lightly and interrupted her session of peace for the 2nd time in a row in a span of just 5 minutes. The world and it's treatments of human beings was sickening.
Ms. Fell was the kind of teacher who was more like a friend rather than a person who yells at you for not completing work that was given literally 2 minutes ago.
She got up, put her tub of heavenly ice cream in the fridge, and attended to her closet to find something reliable to wear.
The December chill was still haunting the streets of Manhattan, once occasional snow now daily. It was an excellent excuse to use a black and white, wintry or Northern Lights palettes. As much as she would love to go for something seafoam green or amethyst blue, she opted for a simple and sleek black and white palette.
She wore a white tank top, a black oversize turtleneck that reached her thighs, ripped jeans and a pair of black micro lace-up block heeled ankle boots. She hated anything heeled with all her being, but it had been a gift from a friend on her birthday, and she wore them from time to time, not risking the angry huffs when she didn't wear them. The gulf between that friendship, in all of it's terrible tropes and problems, was already huge. She didn't need to lose another friend.
So, she grabbed her keys from the disformed ceramic marble painted bowl - a result of a failed pottery class - on the glass table in the living room, the copy of The Woman in White from her library room and walked out the door.
The elevator wasn't working, to her sorrow, but she was fine with it, because she didn't have much luggage, just her keys, her phone, and the book Ms. Fell wanted.
She flew down the 10 flights of stairs like a swift, taking two steps at a time, until she reached the lobby door, where all the people were tailored to foster unlikely smiles.
She spun her keys around her finger in a dysfunctional manner, but looking at it from a rational point of view, it was deadly, because her keys were sharp.
Riding in the car, she looked out onto the street of people observing them. An angsty teen with a candy cigarette from the 90's who seesaws between being an awful juvenile delinquent and showing flashes of the needy child he still is. A busy working mother trying to balance phone calls from work, and trying to see the children at least one day of the week. A beggar on the streets who could be someone that everyone once saw as a hero but now, because of one mistake, he's on the streets.
There's so much tranquility in the the topic of coincidence and consequence, she thought. It was calming to think about them sometimes because there was no specific answer, it could run wild on your imagination, and no matter what you say it could never be wrong.
The traffic was heavy, the cars honking their horns, pissed-off New York City cab drivers swearing at the cars in front of them to move. To a freshman in NYC, this would've been a hellhole of noise, pollution, and traffic. But to her, it was a sweeping backdrop of sound where once could blend into the background without a thought. First, she hadn't liked it either, but like anything, even something as bitter as coffee, savor it long enough, you'll learn to like the taste.
As soon as she reached the street she didn't care to remember the name of, she took a left turn and parked in front of Stuyvesant High. Senior year has been tough for her so far, but there are only a few months to go. She could make it. She always did.
She waved to a few students in the front, smiled, waved and nodded.
Just as she walked through the door when the air quality and temperature changed, the silence was cut by a high pitched squeal.
What now? Someone from behind her through their arms around her neck tightly, choking her.
Yep. This is it. This is how she was going to die. In the hands of a teen who wouldn't say her name, jumping up and down like a 5-year old, thus choking her to death.
As soon as another squeal spilled out the mouth of her captor, she immediately knew who it was.
"CYNTHIA GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!" She yelled, shaking the other girl off. Astra hated PDA enough, and now Cynthia was going around choking people?
"Oh, come on Astra, it was just a little hug!" Yeah. A little hug, she thought, dusting off her shoulders.
"What's up? You get your acceptance letter to a college or something?"
"No, sweetie," The sweetie thing? Again? Some people never learn. "I just got my driver's license!" After failing it 3 times.
Cynthia was nice and all, but in Astra's opinion she has too high-strung and hyperactive - both things that Astra wasn't. She didn't mind Cynthia, but it was one hug too many that got to her and made her want to sink into the shadows.
"Congratulations." she said dryly, her eyes flitting to her surroundings, looking for Ms. Fell.
"What're you lookin' for?" said Cynthia, observing Astra's eye movements."Ms. Fell."
"She's in her office." Cynthia announced, jerking a thumb backwards.
"Alright, thanks!" Astra ran toward the direction she was supposed to travel and rushed into the office room, almost slipping on the floor. She could hear an echo of "Thanks for wearing the heels!" behind her.
"Ahh, I've been waiting for you!" said Ms. Fell, her head bent in a book. Ms. Fell wore a simple teacher outfit, the kind a 25-year old would wear: a button-down tie-up shirt, jeans, hair in a ponytail or braid. But that was probably because she was a 25-year old, and not a cranky 56-year old like Mr. Williams, who was close to sending her to detention whenever she dropped her pencil.
"Did you bring the book?" Ms. Fell asked, looking eager to delve into the classic piece of literature by Willkie Collins. In truth, she had already read it, but feeling the pages and hands they've been in, passing down from generations gives you a feel only a bookworm can understand.
Instead of saying anything, she simply handed it to her and gestured to the door, implying that there was work to be done. She waved goodbye, and I floated out of the door to go to my locker.
Her locker was a living version of a dark academia castle, with withering and burned pages, and quotes from Oscar Wilde or Charles Dickens.
She grabbed the books she left here - Wuthering Heights, The Book of Nonsense, and her ugly Biology textbook - and walked out the door and started cruising through to city to pass her time, in hopes of some sort of miracle to happen.
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Her blood ran as cold as the ocean in the Arctic, and then thawed like the glaciers melting in the ozone hole in the Antarctic. Suddenly, that glowing red button, calling her name seemed very VERY intriguing. Maybe, if she could inch her finger to colliding with it, she could collapse into a fit of shock and fry to death in desert winds floating off the heated desert. Maybe.
"Pardon?" she asked, a plea of confirmation of the name that sent goosebumps down her spine, ringing through her in waves, like the sound waves ringing and echoing when they travel through the Liberty Bell when struck.
"Arjun. Malhotra." he said in irritant earnest voice; breathy, yet taut and closed off, nothing like his own name which was a livid version of the word clear. "I'm sorry, who is this?"
She hit the red button as fast her thin, long finger could, while her hands took refuge on the wall behind her, holding her up, begging her to not fall.
What the hell?
Arjun? Arjun Malhotra? Arjun Malhotra as in the Arjun Malhotra she was just walking with? Arjun Malhotra as in the person that makes her insides turn to jelly, with just one smile, even though she barely knew him?
In that case, she was screwed.
Utterly, ridiculously screwed.
Where was Sharanya? She had gone off to make a phone call, presumably, and he had gotten a phone call himself. What was taking so long?
Suddenly, just as the thought popped into his mind, she materialized in front of him, cheeks flushed in rosy color and face flustered. Huh? Was something wrong?
She looked like she'd seen a ghost. For all he knew, she probably had. I mean, there was no telling if fantasy was real or not. But he had always believed. Just in case.
Nothing like a sudden disappearance of the girl who were just walking with to wrack up his nerves. What had happened? The Suspense was killing him. Being the control freak masked by silent killer that he was, he needed to know what was going on.
Killing that nervousness blooming like a rose in his chest, he found the courage to move his mouth, and to his concealed surprise sound actually came out. "What's wrong?"
White as a sheet, she snapped out of her ghastly haze and her cheeks went back into their former rosy glory. "Uh, Arjun, can I ask you a question?"
Just a second ago, he had wiped his face clean of nervousness, but as that question sank into his ears, it started creeping back onto him like a crawling vine. "Sure, go ahead."
"Are you going to school here?"
Why is she asking? "Yeah, why?"
"Los Angeles High in specific?"
Okay, how was she so accurate? There were tons of high school in Santa Monica and even more in all of Los Angeles. How could she guess so precisely?
"Well, I'm your student guide. Welcome to Los Angeles."
I’m so sorry its taken so long to post. Due to that fact, I am now going to post 3 parts today, so be on the lookout! Again, so sorry!
The wind encompassed the two of them, leaves twirling around in the air as if they were astonished at the extremity of themselves. Gusts of winds tore away from where the sun-setting sky met the unabashed ocean and waltzed in the air like millions of archers releasing their swift arrows from their mighty bows.
Sharanya Varma was becoming entitled to the position of calling Arjun someone she knew. She was cherishing every minute she lay in that threshold, relishing the crown of acknowledgement that rested on her head.
She didn't know Arjun, but she wanted to. Somehow, she managed to dull down her excitement by polishing it to the quick.
She hated small talk with all her being, but she could find nothing to talk about. She debated with herself over simply staying quiet, but that's not the way to make acquaintances, now is it? Then, it hit her like a train, and in moments she was a train wreck. He liked reading didn’t he?
“Who’s your favorite author?” she asked, crossing her fingers that she would hear a name she knew about, or could at least find out about. The last time she asked a boy who his favorite author was, she almost puked at his answer. It was too… ugly to even say out loud. She shuddered at the thought.
“Rubbish. What kind of a question is that?”
A trick question to which he had just answered the way a person would only in her dreams.
“A reliable one.”
“Well then, who’s your favorite author?” he retorted, cocking his face toward her, although bashfully.
“Alright, I give. I can’t possibly choose between my heart, soul and mind. If I had to, I’d rather die. You can't live without either, can you?”
He pretended to think over it for a second before quickly blurting “Yep.” It mentally, emotionally and almost physically hurt him to say it aloud.
When a heart stopped speaking, it stopped beating; so, was he even alive at all? Was he breathing breaths that were true, or were they just collaterals for his suffocation?
Was he really here?
Or was he just a dead body, with a silent soul, and a dead heart?
“Arjun?” a voice lifted him out of the whirlpool of thoughts which was inches away from sending him into oblivion. If only it would, rather than leaving him in a limbo. Why couldn’t the Gods above just take him away from Earth and let him at least breathe in peace? Why?
“Yeah, sorry, I spaced out there.” A breezy laugh to curtain the straining contractions of his heart.
“Okay…” she said in this suspicious tone, as if she could somehow see through him like a broken shard of glass, noticing all the flaws adorning him, all the breathing quiet that surrounded his aura and the whirlwinds that were cast through his heart.
Lucky for him, she buried her suspicions in the ground with her heeled boot and simply nodded in agreement.
They walked in silence as sharp and irregular as an uncarved diamond, but they seemed to settle into it comfortably, filling all the gaps with unsaid words and hidden thoughts.
Sharanya thought over the previous day and her school work. Suddenly, it hit her. She had to call that new student! A transfer student from New York was coming to L.A. and she needed to get whoever that person was introduced to the school and caught up on all the work.
“Sharanya, you’re my most promising student, and I require you to do me a favor. A new student from New York is coming in and we need you to call that person, meet up with them and get them introduced to the school and its affairs. Can you contact said student by this evening?” her teacher had said.
She had just thrown her life under the bus to talk to Arjun. Shit, shit, shit. She couldn't disappoint her English teacher, that was a violation of the bookworm law!
What had she done? What happened to the alarm on her phone? She stole a glance at her phone, and saw… it had gone off and she hadn’t noticed.
She fished her phone out of her white backpack, and she went white when she saw what the time was. What had she done?
She excused herself from Arjun's presence and went to a corner to dial the number and apologize to the new student, whatever their name was.
The person picked up on the first ring. Whoever he/she was, he was punctual. Apparently.
“Hello?” she asked, as soon as she/he picked up.
“Arjun Malhotra, how can I help you?”
I KNOW, I KNOW, this is probably the fluffiest piece of writing you have EVER read, but why not? This is so cheesy and mushy, but that's the vibe I was going for. I mean come on, its my first time, so gimme a break. If you wanna read the whole story, go to #TheWayWeAre or check out my Wattpad at @iespeciallyme1211 for the whole thing, Vote, comment, like and share! I really hope you guys like it. Am I good with chapter endings, or WHAT?
We’re drawn to the things that hate us, ignore us, despise us and use us. We’re drawn to the eternal being of hatred, even when wehen there’s a spectacular world full of love beckoning to us, we all want that one special person to love us. That person could be killing you with their rejection, taunting you with their usage, draining you with their doubt. It’s terrible and makes me miserable at the simple thought of a person whose opinion I cherish ever so much, whose opinion mattered to me. But to them, I am nothing. It’s hurts, Oh it hurts, so damn bad to be seen as a speck of dust, when that person is seen as the Sun in your own world. I speak truth. And I always will.
Heys guys! This wasn’t influenced by anyone, I just wanted people to hear my voice singing in a different language, and along with that, I have to say, I did get very UGLY AND PITCHY at the end, so excuse the braying donkey noises. @lovebird-in-the-dark I may not be nearly as good as you, or perfectly on key, but at least I tried. So yeah. @keya-123 it’s not up to you standards, but I tried. @november-rage What do you think?
Do you ever have the suspection that control is an illusion? Do you ever feel that control is simply masking something, a greater being that is bigger and more than us? Is it even possible to feel that way?
We say that we're in control of our lives, we say that we know whats going on with us, but let’s be honest. Are we?
That coffee you’re drinking, is it your choice, or is it an opinion materialized in your head by psychologically corrupting your mind to want that drink? Those shoes you’re wearing, is it YOUR opinion, or is it the branding of “OMG those shoes are so so great” by your friends that made you buy them?
In my honest opinion, we are not in control of our sinful lives, and even if we ever are, it was already written in the stars that we would be.
We are not in control.
We never will be.
@november-rage, I PROMISED! AND I HAVE FULFILLED, MY SOULMATE!
What could the tether be but a lie?
What could possibly chain
The endless hate
To my existence,
Without being reprimanded?
I am but a lie,
A lie forged by the angels,
Wings of black ebony,
Eyes of oblivion
Hair of onyx.
The words whispered,
The death promised,
The relationships forged,
Could I ever be a truth?
A sickly, prickly thing,
The thorn to the rose,
The sorrow to the joy,
“How art thou?”
“What is your belief?”
Lie, lie, lie,
Everything a lie,
Who I am,
What I am,
Where I am,
How I am.
Is insanity a promise?
Which comes from the barbed rose of the untruth?
And what where the words spoken on the night
Where brigades of stars crashed down onto our abode?
What was the look in your ocean eyes
When you told me it was going to be okay?
What was the color of the sky
When my realisation dawned?
The words tumbled out of her mouth and rolled off her tongue before she could even consider the consequences of what she was going to say. And now, those words were hanging in the air, spoken out loud; said.
She froze for a second, the string of words settling into her chest. She had just asked a stranger she didn’t know the name of, who could possibly be a serial killer to sit next to her while she wrote her innermost thoughts and feelings on paper.
Great going, Sharanya.
In the thought of gauging her own words, she lost sight of his. If he was shocked or surprised, he didn’t show it. A slow, beautiful smile spread across his face and his lips moved slowly as he said, “Sure,”He didn’t really say it, he drawled it, drawing out every syllable, caressing each beat and sound.
For some odd reason, she felt at ease - comfortable even. There was something about him. The way he spoke, his demeanor, his unsurprising chivalry, the kindness of his eyes. They made her want to lean into the touch of the rock, close her eyes and feel the ocean thrashing at her feet while the backdrop faded to a still. It was a sense of serenity and peace that she had never wanted or needed.
“What’s your name?” she blurted. As a control freak by heart, she couldn’t let other people have information about her than she did them. It was against the laws of the universe.
“Arjun,” he said, “Arjun Malhotra.” Clear.
Despite his name’s meaning, he looked nothing of the sort. He didn’t look clear or transparent. He looked clouded, shaded and walled, closed of from being the person he really was. His eyes looked suffocated, dammed, like there was a storm raging throughout him, that he had to cover up with something as measly as a tarp. A tarp. And somehow, it was a facade that everyone around him seemed to believe. How?
“Nice to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand and daring to look into the oblivion eyes wishing she could sink into them
“Nice to meet you too,” he parroted, meeting our fingers and hands in a benevolent shake.
She sat back down, pulled out her trusty seashell encrusted notebook, and began to write.
She sat down, pulled out an aesthetic seashell encrusted notebook and began to write with her vintage, and probabaly expensive fountain pen. There were carvings of steel on the pen, like a deadly vine wrapping itself around a castle, casting its’ subjects into a deep and inescepable death. For some reason, he liked that. Not the death part, of course, but the trapped part. It reminded him of himself.
He watched her intently, wondering if she noticed.
She tipped the nib of her pen onto the thin, worn pages, angling her head, slim shoulders slightly curving inwards, eyes deep and focused, as if she disappeared into smoke and in her place was a new being.
The pen waltzed over the pages in words that were too distant and hidden to comprehend. He contemplating asking ehr what she was writing, but then decided against it.
He had already taken her rock, why her time and concentration?
So, her leaned into the smootha dn worn yet bumpy surface of the rocks, leaned into their touch, closed his eyes and disappeared into a place he didn’t know existed.
A place where his thoughts weren’t deafening, a place where he slowly slipped over the surface of the ice-coated lake, and could finally breathe.
He could hear the waves crashing in the distnace, and could feel the spray they shot at him and Sharanya, could smell the salt, water and flowers. He couldn’t describe the feeling, because he had never felt it before. And although it was disappointing, he enjoyed the moment.
The travel critcis online were right.
Los Angeles was magical.
She didn’t know how long they sat there, adjacent to each other, each lost in their own world, but by the time they both bid their adieus and went home, each of them harboured a smile and a happy thought, locked in the depths of their well-guarded hearts.
hehe. Do I know how to end a chapter, or what? I really liked this chapter for some reason, and I hope you did too. I really liked how they barely knew each other and they felt comfortable. Like they were both icicles, and they were fire to each other, thawing. I know these kind of romance stories don’t just happen in real life, but do you know that feeling? When the universe shifts? The atmosphere altered, the world tipped over, black in place of white, blue in the place of red. That feeling, that sudden and inevitable bond snapping into place? I don’t knwo what its like, but I assume its something like this. I’m really enjoying writing this. I’m looking forward to more and I hope you are too! Please share and comment! I’d love it if you did! Thanks for reading this far! Part 4 to come tomorrow or overmorrow.
Quick shoutout to @keya-123 , for this request! I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you liked reading it. I hope this is how you meet your soulmate girl. Maybe not exactly like this, but with the feeling of loving one another before even knowing them. You deserve that. Love you!
Do you ever feel sad? Sad, not by wondering about your own experiences and the colours that fade to the edge of your vision, until the only colours you can see are red and blue, but wondering about everything that happened? How everything is just so freaking sad?
When you feel that aura of black and grey around your weighted presence, can you truly stop it from happening? Can you feel things that are important and meaningful when everything is clouded with that ugly grey smoke?
Can you truly comprehend and battle your own inner demons when you’re so lost in thought about how the universe is at odds?
Sometimes you think about everyone’s trauma, how everyone’s life could be filled with fractured dreams, lost souls, and shattered hearts, so much so that the tears forming on the edges of your eyes that drip to the ground in agony are filled with more raw emotion than the dead part of our souls wishing for a place in the world, beyond what we have now.
Imagine, how everyone’s faces could be smiling and dancing with laughter; good, true, and wholesome, and yet, they could be broken inside, crying themselves to sleep every single night.
When those nightmares haunt you, the screams of agony awakening the innermost demons inside you, what do you feel?
What could you possibly rather than complete and utter dismay? At where we have come to, from where we came from.
We came from places too far to reach, because they were good. They were good and true, a spectrum of colours that could shatter any evil. But now that it’s too far gone, where do we go? Where do we go from here?
We’re all children who grew up too fast, we’re all people who had to see things we shouldn’t have, we’re all people who had to mature before we could grow up, we’re all people who had to lose our childhood because of the demands of the world.
Even in a crowded room, you feel lonely.
Even when looking at a wholesome mirror, you feel broken.
The whitecaps on the crested waves keep drowning themselves in water, only to rise up again and fall at the feet of the people on the beach who are basking themselves in the creamy golden sunlight, amused and fascinated by the ocean as much as anyone.
Sharanya Varma was no exception, as she scribbled down words she thought suitable to the moment on the seashell adorned notebook laid out on her lap, waiting for something to click.
Just as she thought it, it did click, and the final word of the short poem snapped into place and she congratulated herself for the profound thought.
Blue, blue, an ocean so blue,
A designated throne for beasts and beauties alike,
A hunting ground for the angels,
A kingdom for the night.
Sometimes, when the words poured out of heart and inked the page, she didn't know what they meant herself, because it wasn't her who was in control of them. It was another girl, another Sharanya, another being, spilling out her profound thoughts through her because it couldn't find anyone else, like Venom and Eddie in that 2018 movie.
And like Eddie, she had made a pact with her Venom, deciding that it was intriguing, for a being not of this world to spill its innermost thoughts.
She would sit near her favorite rock on the beach, and write for ages, against the sweeping backdrop of Los Angeles, sometimes rolling pieces of smooth sea glass in her hand, or listening to music on her headphones.
She would sit there for hours and hours acting as if she had nothing to do (although there was tons to be done), until the days mourning left her face, and in its wake would stand a smile.
This was not one of those days.
She had to rush back home to her crowded and messed-up apartment,change clothes, and rush to the school library to finish her homework which was due tomorrow.
You should be ashamed of yourself, she thought, wondering about the statistics of procrastination among students.
Although the number seemed quite large in her head, she shook it out of her mind and took off from the rocky sea stack on the shore, hopped onto the pier, and ran as fast as she could, leaving the grainy sand in her wake.
If it weren't for the beach and the desert and the waves, Arjun Malhotra would never have wanted to come to Los Angeles.
He was used to the eternal buzz of Manhattan, where people always had something to say, whether other citizens wanted to hear it or not.
And he was fine with that. Grateful in fact, because he was ushered into silence, and he didn't want to speak. He knew that if he started, he couldn't stop, he couldn't be left high and dry, he couldn't have a taste of freedom and then be told he couldn't have it anymore.
So he let the worl storm into his room and lock him in the closet, because all he could ever care about was in his own heart, and not outside of it.
Leaving the Manhattan thoughts behind him, he took a step forward, and let his feet immerse themselves in the warm water of the Santa Monica beach, looking out onto the raging ocean from the pier. As he urged himself forward, the water level rising and dragging him deeper into the ocean, he noticed a collection of rocks jutting out from the ocean - sea stacks they were called - within a proportional distance with just enough sand to keep dry, and just enough swaying waves to tickle his feet.
He ran toward the stack and fit himself into the curve of them.
It was worn, he noticed, traces of another human being's constant presence e in the place. He didn't care, because right now, he needed to breathe.
“Breathe,” he whispered to himself, letting himself absorb the words. “Breathe,” he repeated over and over like a mantra, shoving the words down his throat, trying to convince his disobeying heart to stay silent.
And just like always, though reluctantly, his heart listened.
The library indulged itself in a dull kind of quiet that Sharanya had not fully understood. A kind of quiet that made explosions go off in her head. A kind of quiet that made her want to scream everything she held back at the top of her lungs from the rooftop.
She was good at calming herself down to reduce the screaming and storming, but the rain drizzled on in her heart, sending shocks and storms through her body in wavelengths.
She didn't like the feeling. Never had. Never will.
She groaned at the lengths of the pages she needed to write down, all laced with insufferable unnecessary knowledge.
She found it ironic, how she could sit at the beach writing for hours until she couldn't tell time, and how she wouldn't even write a 12-page essay. To write something, to do something she needed to feel it. She needed to feel giddy enough to make her head spin, a kind of ecstasy that could only be found in the ocean.
So, just like she had hours ago, she sprinted toward the ocean, seashell notebook in hand, to find her only solace in this fast-moving world.
Just a few yards before she reached her sea stack, she stopped and yielded to her rising heartbeat and the sweat on her forehead. Hands on her knees, she panted and breathed out the air that had been held in her lungs when she was running.
She walked forward, waiting for the intricate tracings of ink on the rock to come into view, but that's not what she saw.
She saw the most beautiful human being she had ever seen in her life, and for a moment, she thought her heart had stopped beating, His black eyes were like they were made of obsidian, his shiny black hair tempting enough to want to run her hands through it. He was wearing a simple hoodie, jeans and Converse, but she couldn't process it. It was too much to take in at once.
Ignoring the beats her heart skipped, like a 6-year old in the elementary school cafeteria, she said “You’re in my spot.”
HEYYYYY! This is the awaited story that I’ve been saying I’d write. Well here it is. This week, we have the last of our exams, so I may be a bit slow to post, and I’m extremely sorry for that, but I promise I’ll post soon, so don’t go away. It’d be great if you guys provided me with some plot twists, or maybe even suggestions ofr my writing. Is it good, my writing? Like is it intriguing? I need some critisism. Anyway, if you want more parts to this, rather than ravaging my blog (you can do that too), you can use the hashtag #TheWayWeAre. There are no parts except this one, but this is for future use.
Thank you @keya-123 for this request, and @november-rage and @floralbeast for encouraging it. I’ll just tag some people who I want to read this story, hope you dont mind the tag!