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The rain pattered against the windowpane, casting a mesmerizing pattern of rivulets down the glass. Summer sat on the edge of her bed, the dim city light casting long shadows across her cluttered little apartment. Her walls were adorned with photographs and mementos from past adventures - reminders of a life spent always on the move. But tonight, the weight of her thoughts pinned her in place.
Growing up, Summer had learned to build emotional walls as high and thick as fortress ramparts. Trust was a precious commodity she guarded zealously, a currency to be doled out sparingly. As she gazed at a faded photograph of her family, long-buried memories came rushing back - her father's stern, disapproving face and her mother's distant, haunted eyes still felt like ghosts trapped in her mind.
Summer's childhood had been a fragmented, unsettling tapestry of memories. She could still recall those late nights when her parents' angry shouts reverberated through the thin walls of their old house, the shadows mingling with her fear and confusion. No matter how hard she tried, the echoes of those fights always lingered, always close on her heels.
School had offered no refuge, becoming a battlefield where the scars of her home life often resurfaced. She'd become a master at hiding her pain, but her brusque demeanor and sharp tongue made her an easy target for the other kids. Friends were few and far between, and every betrayal, no matter how small, carved deeper grooves into her psyche. 11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnpg8x1xKYz
11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVYd9sE9kRq
January 17th || Year 2018
The exhaustion clung to Summer, not as a passing feeling, but as a suffocating coat of lead. It was a weariness that seeped into her bones, a physical manifestation of the turmoil that had become her everyday reality. The echoes of her parents' latest fight still reverberated in her mind – a chaotic symphony of raised voices, sharp words like broken glass, and the sickening thud of things being thrown against walls. Sleep, a welcome escape for most, had become a distant memory for her, a luxury replaced by the constant unease that pulsed through her home. She desperately craved an escape, even a fleeting moment of peace, before the day could drag her down with it.
As the first rays of a reluctant sun hinted at the horizon, Summer plugged in her earphones, letting the music wash over her. It was a temporary balm, a sonic shield against the raw edges of her nerves. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could find a cashier who wouldn't look too closely when she bought an energy drink, or perhaps a hidden pack of cigarettes. A surge of artificial energy and a nicotine buzz, however fleeting, felt like the only way to face the day ahead.
Walking down her street, she couldn't help but notice the smaller kids being led, hand-in-hand, by their parents. The sight triggered a maelstrom of emotions within her – a sharp pang of longing, a flash of resentful anger, and beneath it all, a profound, hollow emptiness. Why couldn't she have that? Why did her life feel so different, so starkly devoid of the simple joy that seemed to come effortlessly to others? Why was her sister always the one chosen, always the "golden child"? What invisible quality did she possess that Summer so clearly lacked? These questions, usually kept at bay when she stepped outside the threshold of her house, now clawed at the edges of her mind, threatening to tear down the walls she'd so carefully erected.
Usually, her walk to school was a quiet haven, a brief respite from the chaos. But today, even the familiar, mundane sights felt like a heavy weight. "Ah, shit," she muttered, narrowly avoiding colliding with someone. "Oh, look, hey, I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going," she said, pulling out one earphone, her voice tinged with tired resignation. She offered a hand to the girl who was now sitting on the ground, her brow furrowed. Shit, did I just knock her flat on her arse? she thought, a wave of guilt washing over her.
The girl sighed heavily, her expression momentarily tense as if she'd been ready to unleash a tirade of frustrated words. Instead, she accepted Summer's hand, her quiet thanks barely a whisper. Summer noticed the girl's uniform was soaked, obviously the result of their accidental collision, and the guilt tightened its grip. "I- I really am sorry," she repeated, her words tumbling out in a rush. The girl dismissed her apology with a wave of her hand. "It's fine," she said, her smile gentle and genuine, softening the edges of her earlier frustration. Summer shifted her weight awkwardly, the social interaction feeling like a minefield she was ill-equipped to navigate. "I- uhm. I gotta go," she mumbled, turning abruptly and walking away, not daring to look back.
Wow, what an awkward start to the morning. Summer thought, her face flushing with embarrassment. Social interactions were often excruciating, each encounter a reminder of the chasm that separated her from everyone else. She much preferred the silent world of her sketchbook, the imagined conversations she had with the characters in her books, and the soothing melodies that flowed through her headphones. Those were her safe places, the corners of the world where she didn't have to navigate the bewildering complexities of human interaction. She reached into her bag, her fingers closing around an old, crumpled pack of cigarettes she'd stashed away. "Perfect," she whispered, a small spark of defiance igniting within her, and she continued her walk, hoping to find some solace in the familiar burn.
Summer exhaled, the smoke a dark plume against the grey morning sky. The cigarette, a small, familiar weight between her lips, offered a tiny reprieve from the restless impatience that had been her constant companion since waking. "Fuck sake," she muttered, the words barely audible above the wind that whipped around her, mocking the thin material of her school skirt. The school's archaic dress code, a daily reminder of rules she couldn't quite conform to, only intensified her growing frustration. It was a joke, she thought, a cruel joke that seemed designed to chip away at the last vestiges of her patience.
A wave of self-reproach crashed over Summer as she neared the corner shop. She'd almost sleepwalked past, her mind a frantic tangle of anxieties. A hot flush crept up her neck – that awful feeling of being publicly clumsy, the sensation of being watched and judged. She grabbed a bright blue energy drink, the can cold and slick in her hand, paid quickly, and practically fled back onto the street, desperately trying to shake off the phantom stares she imagined following her.
School loomed ahead, a giant, intimidating presence – a place of forced interactions and suffocating rules. Today, the mere thought of facing it felt like too much, like trying to breathe underwater. Skipping it felt like a hollow victory, a solitary act of defiance that left her feeling more alone than rebellious. "God, you're pathetic," she muttered to herself, the voice inside laced with self-disgust. Skipping school, all by herself, like some lost stray. A gnawing cold started creeping up her legs, each goosebump a sharp reminder of how ridiculous her thin skirt felt this morning. The only real comfort was her thick scarf, the one she'd wound around her neck so many times, it could practically double as a blanket if she could find a quiet enough spot. Maybe she could sketch? The thought was a tiny spark of hope in the grey chill.
Summer began to wander, her eyes scanning the surroundings for a safe haven. Not the park; it was too exposed, too open. She needed a place that could swallow her whole, a quiet corner where the pages of her sketchbook could become a portal to another world. She passed a row of houses, the gardens frosty and forlorn, the windows dark and unwelcoming. Then, across the road, tucked away behind a bakery and hidden from the main street, she saw it: a narrow, overgrown alleyway, partly concealed by a thick, unruly hedge. It seemed to call to her.
The alley was a strip of forgotten space, a hodgepodge of fallen leaves and discarded junk. A broken wooden crate lay on its side, creating a makeshift seat. It wasn't perfect, but it was secluded. Pulling her scarf tighter, Summer settled onto the crate, the cold seeping quickly through her jeans and the ineffectual comfort of her mismatched socks. She reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a small, worn sketchbook, its pages filled with the ghosts of her thoughts and unfinished drawings.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over a freshly empty page. What to draw? The alley itself felt too depressing, too gray and mundane. Then her gaze fell on a broken flowerpot nearby. A single, persistent dandelion had pushed its way through a crack. The image resonated, a tiny burst of defiance in a neglected corner. Summer's pencil began to move, the lines flowing almost involuntarily across the page, capturing the fragility and unexpected strength of that dandelion.
As Summer's charcoal danced across the page, the real world seemed to dissolve. The biting wind, the phantom stares she'd imagined earlier, even the imposing brick walls of the school she'd just escaped, all faded into the background. There was only the soft scratching of her pencil and the growing shapes taking form beneath her hand. It was her refuge, her sanctuary – until a jarring CLANK! shattered the delicate peace.
Her heart leaped into her throat, a startled gasp escaping her lips as her sketchbook tumbled to the ground. "What the--?!" she exclaimed, whirling around to confront the source of the disruption.
Leaning against the ancient, chipped brick wall stood a boy, looking to be around her age. He held a skateboard like some kind of ludicrous metal shield. A shock of dark, unruly hair framed a face lit by a mischievous grin. Who the heck is this? she thought, her annoyance building beneath the surface of what she'd carefully cultivated: a calm, composed exterior. "Uhm? Excuse me? That was incredibly rude," she stated, folding her arms across her chest, a defensive gesture she'd perfected over years of wary interactions.
He simply laughed, a sound that grated on her already frayed nerves. He raised a hand in mock surrender. "Sorry, but you should have seen your face. It was priceless," he replied, taking a step closer, a playful glint in his eyes that refused to diminish. "This is my spot, by the way," he added, throwing down a challenge she couldn't quite ignore.
Summer eyed him up and down, a subtle scowl darkening her face. His spot? As if his name were etched into the concrete. Her fiercely independent spirit bristled at his audacity. "Oh, is that so? And why should I care?" she retorted, her tone laced with a sassy bite she hadn't realized she possessed.
He scoffed, taking a step back, his amusement unwavering. "Hey, I'm just saying. Nothing wrong with sharing." He then bent to pick up Summer's scattered sketchbook, his gaze sweeping over the pages with a critical eye that made the hairs on her arms rise. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and she didn't like it, not one bit. "Huh. You're good... like, really good." He handed her back the sketchbook, which Summer snatched from him, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. "Yeah, well, I don't need your opinion," she mumbled, avoiding his gaze and clutching the book to her chest like a shield.
The grin never left his face. "Whatever you say, ice queen. I'm Ethan, by the way. If you care."
Ice queen? The term was both infuriating and strangely accurate, a label she might have even, secretly, chosen for herself. Summer found her mind swirling. The familiar protective walls she'd built were beginning to feel flimsy against this unexpected intrusion. Since when have I been this sassy? Usually, my palms sweat like crazy if I even try to make eye contact. This is so odd. What in the world is happening? The open defiance she was displaying felt foreign, almost exhilarating. "I'm Summer, and yes. I don't care," she replied, holding her head high and giving him a sassy look of her own. A touch of pride – a small, unexpected bloom – blossomed in her chest.
"Now are you just gonna stand there and stare at me? Or what?" Summer's voice was tinged with the frustration of someone whose quiet afternoon was being thoroughly disrupted. She didn't even bother looking up, her charcoal pencil continuing its meticulous dance across the paper, sketching the delicate lines of a dandelion.
He'd been there for a while, lurking in her peripheral vision, a silent, still presence. Now, the silence was weighing on her like a heavy blanket.
He finally spoke, his voice low and hesitant, breaking the tension that had grown thick between them. "Can't help it," he murmured, "Not when my eyes are drawn to you like a moth to a flame."
Summer internally groaned. Seriously? That line? She knew Ethan – everyone at school knew Ethan. He was the resident charmer, the guy known for his cheesy pick-up lines and an almost unsettling level of confidence. It was like he'd pulled that one straight from a dusty old romance novel.
"Is that right?" she mumbled, her focus stubbornly fixed on the dandelion's stem, adding another delicate line. She refused to give him the satisfaction of her attention.
"All I'm tryna say is," Ethan continued, shifting slightly but his gaze remaining glued to her. "You're beautiful, in a...inconvenient way."
Summer finally glanced up, a question etched on her brow. "What is that even supposed to mean?" she thought, Jeez, he's so weird.
He responded with a self-deprecating grin, "It just means, pretty girls like you always lead to trouble." He then awkwardly lowered himself onto a nearby wooden crate, the old wood creaking in protest. "But seriously," he continued, his eyes now a little less intense and a little more genuine. "I'm sorry for scaring you. And well, I've seen you around school, and I have to say, I'm curious about you."
Summer sighed, the air escaping her lungs in a soft rush. She liked this spot. She came here for the solitude, the quiet hum of the city a comforting background to her sketching. Now, with him here, it felt... different. Annoying, really. "Okay? What do you want me to say?" she asked, a ripple of impatience in her voice.
Ethan just laughed, a genuine, bright sound that filled the space and made Summer's hand stop mid-sketch. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, he completely shed that carefully crafted "charmer" persona. "You really are mean," he said, shaking his head, amused. "But hey, you can't blame a guy for trying to talk to you," he added playfully, a hint of a jab in his voice.
Summer stared at him for a moment, her sketching forgotten. His easy laughter was surprisingly disarming, far removed from the over-the-top lines he'd thrown at her. The change was subtle, almost jarring. He was still Ethan, the school's notorious flirt, but for a brief moment she could see something else - maybe a hint of genuine interest under all the bravado.
"You're not shy about that, are you? Just saying whatever comes to your mind?" Summer had retorted, trying to mask her surprise with a defensive edge. She wasn't used to such unvarnished honesty, especially from someone like Ethan. He carried himself with an effortless confidence, like he was born with a spotlight on him. It was disconcerting, yet undeniably... intriguing.
Ethan chuckled, a low rumble that made Summer's heart skip a beat. "You could say I have a knack for authenticity," he confessed, his gaze unwavering. "Life's too short to hide what you think, right?"
Summer, a creature of careful observation and quiet contemplation, found herself genuinely intrigued, despite her initial skepticism. "And you're not worried about what others think?" she asked, the edge in her voice softening.
Ethan's smirk widened, revealing a flash of playful mischief. "Ah, see. You're asking the wrong question," he replied, leaning against the brick wall. "I'm more interested in what you think."
The unexpected twist sent a warm flush creeping up Summer's cheeks. People rarely asked for her opinion, let alone valued it. She tried to play it cool, setting her sketchbook on her lap before responding. "Well then," she began, attempting a casual tone, "I suppose I think you're awfully full of yourself."
A snort of laughter escaped Ethan, and his smile broadened. "You're not wrong," he admitted, with a self-deprecating humour that was almost disarming. "But hey, confidence comes from knowing who you are, warts and all. What's life without a healthy dose of arrogance, right?"
Summer rolled her eyes, fighting the urge to crack a smile. "I don't know if arrogance is something to be proud of," she mumbled, playing with a charcoal pencil. The black residue stained her fingers, creating a stark contrast against her skin. "It's more like a flaw, don't you think?"
Ethan clutched his chest dramatically, feigning hurt. "You wound me! Sure, maybe arrogance can be a flaw, but it's also a part of my... how did you put it? Ah, 'charm'."
Her lips quirked upwards despite herself. "Charming? That's one word for it. Obnoxious is another one," she quipped, her tone laced with sarcasm.
Just then, her phone shattered the charged atmosphere, its shrill ring echoing in the confines of the alley. A quick glance at the screen confirmed her fears: it was her mother. "Damn it," she muttered, her shoulders slumping. Her mother always had impeccable timing, especially when it came to things she'd rather avoid – like explaining why she was missing school, again.
"I have to go," she announced, scrambling to gather her belongings. The thought of her mother's disappointment was like a physical weight in her stomach.
"Running already?" Ethan's voice, low and teasing, stopped her in her tracks. He pushed off the wall, sauntering towards her, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
"Something like that," she replied, avoiding his gaze, frustrated by the way his presence always seemed to throw her off-kilter.
"Well, before you disappear," he said, a mischievous glint reappearing in his eyes, "I have to say, your defensiveness is... charming." He finished the sentence with a wink that was like a jolt of electricity.
Summer mumbled something unintelligible, shouldered her bag and practically bolted towards the alley exit. She didn't dare look back, her cheeks burning, her mind a chaotic mix of annoyance and a strange, unsettling anticipation.
As she hurried down the street, the echo of his laughter still rang in her ears. His words replayed in her mind, a constant reminder of how he had seen straight through her carefully constructed walls. It was a strange kind of discomfort, this feeling of being so plainly observed, and yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that it might be exactly what she needed.
11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡL1DAbcT12X
