By HANNA KRISHNA S. CALLORA

Had he not made the first move, she wouldn’t have spoken to him.
She was this quiet little thing who was afraid of everything – people, clowns, heights, monsters under the bed – until that fateful day when he came along.

He was just as tiny. Every time he wanted to see her face, which was almost always hidden behind a curtain of hair, he had to look up. But he didn’t mind because it was always worth it.

It was a dreary afternoon. The clouds were a melancholic gray. She was sitting on a swing in the playground that was her refuge. As the first drop fell on her nose and she heard the soft drizzle of the rain, she looked up at the sky, and with a silent sigh, thanked the clouds for they were doing the crying for her.
He knew she was going to be there. He watched her from the window of his bedroom. He always wondered what made her lonely. Everyday she sat on the same swing in the playground across from his house and she always looked like she was going to cry. But that day it rained and still, she stayed.

She just sat there. Her hair and her clothes were damp and she shivered a little from the cold but she didn’t leave. The rain was comforting.

Suddenly, it stopped. She looked up and she was under the roof of a big black umbrella. It belonged to him.
“Hi,” he said, as he handed her a piece of notebook paper.
There was a picture of a girl, who had the same sad eyes as her.
She managed a small smile. It confused her because she hasn’t smiled in ages. But he came along with an umbrella and a picture of a girl who looks exactly like her and it just seemed like the most natural response in the world.
She motioned for him to sit down on the swing next to her. And as the rain melted the last block of ice that was lodged in her throat, she managed to say, in her own quiet little way, “Hello.”

That was all he needed.

As they sat in their little corner of the world, they watched the last stream of rain pour down.

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