Sunshine
She had a stepfather.
He was very tall and, handsome. She thinks, for years. Handsome. You know, when we talk about it that someone is handsome or beautiful, it's never because of their smooth hair, a cool moustache, lovely lips and things like that. It's because… they are like shining stars in our eyes, they are familiar to us, when we think about them, we feel the beauty, the kind of mysterious, magic, and excuse me, extreme, but warm beauty, of this world. Or maybe, out of this world. It's like... It feels like reading a very touching story when you look at them, when you think of their familiar faces, when their smile cross over your mind suddenly or for a special reason.
While maybe you don't really always feel it at the very first sight. Neither did she. She even burst into tears when he first appeared at the gate of her house. Oh, not only that, she did wail and shout, did yell at him to let him go away. Well, now when she recalls this scene which is decades away, she will laugh, with tears in the eyes for sure.
Tears. Yes. When it comes to tears, she can't help thinking of the tears they have ever shared. The tears streaming from her young moist eyes into his collars, the tears that ran down her face droping in his arms, the tears crossing the small wounds on her face which she got after falling down accidentally when she was still almost just a baby, and they then fullfilled his hands which were holding her little trambling cheeks... And, and the tears rolling down his face, for the very first time, that is when... No. Now she is getting on in years after all, she can't think that much any more, she can't. lt will worsen her headache. But, alas, there is really someone in your life that always makes your memories surge up suddenly, violently, over and over and over... She's got no other choices but to sit, alone, in front of the mommath memory, leaving her tears to fall into it, to grow wildly in it, that passage of memories where he is. Where he will always be. This passage is too tiny, too short, compared with her lengthy lifetime, she thinks, but this careless forgetful girl has never lost it for once, never, never, not even for once. She can't.
Since she always needs it. She needs to listen to his gentle lullabies --his own off-key tunes --every night before she falls alseep. She needs his tender words to ring around her old ears in time, when her a series of diseases caused by years start to make her suffer again. She needs his gentle smiling eyes, when she accidentally breaks a vase she just bought this month again. Gentle. Yes. He was such a gentle guy. He was so gentle to her.
But. how could he? She just can't figure it out, he is the typical man with high self-esteem. While she treated him badly. She threw snowballs with stones in at him just for fun. She would call his embarrassing nickname loudly in the crowd. She has forgotten numbers of appointments with him, leaving him to have waited for a whole hot summer day one after another... Oh dear, what have I done, she thinks. She regrets. She cries like a little baby for hours. She calms down finally, in his comforting embrace from her memory.
The day he left it was drizzling. He leant on a muddy trunk to support his trembling body, refused her hug so not to let the blood all over him soil her favolite white dress. But she finally made it into his arms, since he was so weak anyway. She wailed and shouted, yelled, just like the day he appeared in her life for the first time, at the gate of her house. Actually somewhat more wildly. Her tears, again, drenched his collar.
I love you. He said. She was just shocked. She was still a teenager then, too young to understand the true meaning of this sentence. But a part of her understood it just in time, no, maybe long before he spoke it out, maybe as soon as his gentle eyes met hers for the first time.
I love you. She repeats, just in the same tune as his, as the sunshine from the warm afternoon streaches through the window into her room. How lucky I am, she thinks, with a happy, gentle smile on her face, the same as his.
He was very tall and, handsome. She thinks, for years. Handsome. You know, when we talk about it that someone is handsome or beautiful, it's never because of their smooth hair, a cool moustache, lovely lips and things like that. It's because… they are like shining stars in our eyes, they are familiar to us, when we think about them, we feel the beauty, the kind of mysterious, magic, and excuse me, extreme, but warm beauty, of this world. Or maybe, out of this world. It's like... It feels like reading a very touching story when you look at them, when you think of their familiar faces, when their smile cross over your mind suddenly or for a special reason.
While maybe you don't really always feel it at the very first sight. Neither did she. She even burst into tears when he first appeared at the gate of her house. Oh, not only that, she did wail and shout, did yell at him to let him go away. Well, now when she recalls this scene which is decades away, she will laugh, with tears in the eyes for sure.
Tears. Yes. When it comes to tears, she can't help thinking of the tears they have ever shared. The tears streaming from her young moist eyes into his collars, the tears that ran down her face droping in his arms, the tears crossing the small wounds on her face which she got after falling down accidentally when she was still almost just a baby, and they then fullfilled his hands which were holding her little trambling cheeks... And, and the tears rolling down his face, for the very first time, that is when... No. Now she is getting on in years after all, she can't think that much any more, she can't. lt will worsen her headache. But, alas, there is really someone in your life that always makes your memories surge up suddenly, violently, over and over and over... She's got no other choices but to sit, alone, in front of the mommath memory, leaving her tears to fall into it, to grow wildly in it, that passage of memories where he is. Where he will always be. This passage is too tiny, too short, compared with her lengthy lifetime, she thinks, but this careless forgetful girl has never lost it for once, never, never, not even for once. She can't.
Since she always needs it. She needs to listen to his gentle lullabies --his own off-key tunes --every night before she falls alseep. She needs his tender words to ring around her old ears in time, when her a series of diseases caused by years start to make her suffer again. She needs his gentle smiling eyes, when she accidentally breaks a vase she just bought this month again. Gentle. Yes. He was such a gentle guy. He was so gentle to her.
But. how could he? She just can't figure it out, he is the typical man with high self-esteem. While she treated him badly. She threw snowballs with stones in at him just for fun. She would call his embarrassing nickname loudly in the crowd. She has forgotten numbers of appointments with him, leaving him to have waited for a whole hot summer day one after another... Oh dear, what have I done, she thinks. She regrets. She cries like a little baby for hours. She calms down finally, in his comforting embrace from her memory.
The day he left it was drizzling. He leant on a muddy trunk to support his trembling body, refused her hug so not to let the blood all over him soil her favolite white dress. But she finally made it into his arms, since he was so weak anyway. She wailed and shouted, yelled, just like the day he appeared in her life for the first time, at the gate of her house. Actually somewhat more wildly. Her tears, again, drenched his collar.
I love you. He said. She was just shocked. She was still a teenager then, too young to understand the true meaning of this sentence. But a part of her understood it just in time, no, maybe long before he spoke it out, maybe as soon as his gentle eyes met hers for the first time.
I love you. She repeats, just in the same tune as his, as the sunshine from the warm afternoon streaches through the window into her room. How lucky I am, she thinks, with a happy, gentle smile on her face, the same as his.
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