I walk out of school, and the first gust of cold air hits me.
I cross the parking lots, and the raindrops have already began pelting me. I wonder if one of my friends will offer a ride. No one does.
I cross the street, and my hands are already numb.
I make my way through the development, and I am quickly gaining more water on my person, making me numb, but I cannot find it within me to care. I have had a perfect day.
I exit the development, and loneliness sets in. My usual walking friends have ignored me the past few days, and I know exactly why.
I make my way down the first block, the longest one, and I am still smiling like a fool.
Another block, and rain is running down my face. My hair is surely a mess, my teeth ache from my dentist visit, and my bruises on my arm have yet to fade, but I do not care.
I pass another, and I mentally count. Four more to go. The time is checked: twenty minutes; I’ve made good time today.
Two to go. The rain gathers in a drop at the tip of my nose, not heavy enough to fall but noticeable enough to annoy me.
And the final block passes beneath my feet, and my hands feels like it might freeze in place, I position my fingers just in case. The fingers on my right hand contort into the shape they take when I write, because if my hand is stuck forever one way, I want to still be able to hold a pen, because I am a writer.
I am a writer for the little things: for the haunting old memories, pens that have run out of ink, and the water droplets that gather on my nose.