. 　。　　　　•　 　ﾟ　　。
　　.　　　.　　　 　　.　
。　　 。　.
　.　　 。　 ඞ 。　 . •
• .　 。　.
　 　　。　　　　　　ﾟ　
　　.　　　　　.
,　　　　.　 .　　 . 。

-» 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬, 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭 »

. 　。　　　　•　 　ﾟ　　。
　　.　　　.　　　 　　.　
。　　 。　.
　.　　 。　 ඞ 。　 . •
• .　 。　.
　 　　。　　　　　　ﾟ　
　　.　　　　　.
,　　　　.　 .　　 . 。

HYACINTH WAS BY HERSELF in their - when did it change from hers to theirs? - little clearing in the forest, hanging upside down on one of the sweeping willow trees and tracing the flowing drapes of green and yellow with her palms. The sun had risen from the east, passed its zenith, and was dipping towards the west, the sky ablaze with pale reds and blooming oranges. Her arms were tired, her lavender scarf crumpled from the times she took it out to fix her hair, and the strawberry and cream sandwiches Tito Alan helped her make were half-eaten and melted from the summer sun.

It was already way past noon like they agreed to the day before. They made a promise to meet up. He had even given her a pinkie promise. Mama said to always honour your promises, especially pinkie promises. She'd say - said - 'You are only as good as your word.'

Maybe he thought she was weird, like the others. She wasn't deaf to what the other kids called her in the playground. She thought they were mean, and they were cruel, and they liked to call her weird and tease her about her accent. They would laugh when she got something in English wrong, and they would hide her notebooks when the teacher asks them to hand in their homework, getting her in trouble when it wasn't even her fault. They would pull at her scarf in the playground and exclude them from their games of tag.

"That's the weird girl!"

"We are at an English school, where it is required to speak English, not whatever gibberish we want. This is precisely the reason I am asking you to do your homework, which you still have not given me for the past three days. I'm afraid I'll be seeing you at lunch detention for blatant disregard of instructions and requirements. I expected better from you, Ms Dimalanta."

"Who even wears a scarf in the summer? Zombie girl!"

"We don't want to play with you. You look and talk funny. We might catch your weirdness."

"Here at school, Ms Dimalanta, we are here to improve on our conversational skills. That means we speak properly, not as if we are at the marketplace or carnival."

"Who's she?" "Oh, she's the funny girl who sits at the back of the class. Don't become friends with her, my mummy said she was different." "Different?" "Yeah, different."

No. Harry wasn't like that. He listened to her when she talked about the engkanto and the duwende. He had let her hold his hand and laughed along with her, not at her. He didn't ask about her scarf, and he meant it when he said sorry about her parents. He even told her about his own parents. About how he sometimes dreamed of flying motorcycles cruising across the Brighton sky, or colourful smoke rings and bright green flashes. How sometimes, he'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel like he'd dreamt about something important, something about them, and the memory was erased the second he woke up.

Above all, he understood. And he went along with her anyways.

Hyacinth was sure that Harry would come. He promised.

So she stayed there, staring at the heart-shaped leaves of the willow tree until the blanket of the night made her lose count. She was getting in the swing of it too, trying her very best to replicate how Harry pronounced the numbers. Four wasn't 'for' here but closer to 'fou'. Three was pronounced almost like free instead of trrree. And they don't roll the 'r's as much as she did. She would have to fix that when she started secondary school.

Maybe she was too excited and had made a mistake and they were supposed to meet up tomorrow instead of today? She was sure that they said today though.

Maybe he didn't see her? But she made sure to put a note at the bottom of the tree, and her bag and food were all there. Plus, she was down there at noon, playing hopscotch between the gnarled roots of the willow tree, taking refuge from the blazing sun.

Maybe something came up. Harry wouldn't just ignore her like that. He was sweet and kind and friendly, not like the other kids in the neighbourhood. But she didn't even know which house he lived in, so she couldn't just come by and ask what happened. She also would think that his aunt and uncle wouldn't be particularly keen on having someone like her knocking on their door from what she heard from Harry yesterday.

She gathered strewn half-eaten sandwiches into her paper bag and went home, her feet sticking to the ground more than when she first came to the meeting spot.

Tomorrow. He'll be there tomorrow.

. 　。　　　　•　 　ﾟ　　。
　　.　　　.　　　 　　.　
。　　 。　.
　.　　 。　 ඞ 。　 . •
• .　 。　.
　 　　。　　　　　　ﾟ　
　　.　　　　　.
,　　　　.　 .　　 . 。

༻✧༺

. 　。　　　　•　 　ﾟ　　。
　　.　　　.　　　 　　.　
。　　 。　.
　.　　 。　 ඞ 。　 . •
• .　 。　.　 　　
。　　　　　　ﾟ　　　
.　　　　　.
,　　　　.　 .　　 . 。

HE WASN'T THERE the next day.

Or the next.

She came by on Friday again because even if it was their - damn it, it wasn't theirs, it was just hers - spot only for a night. He didn't show.

So she waited, every day from just before the sun hit its peak to solemn dusk. She waited until the frogs croaked at night, and it was far too dark to read. The nights were cold, and the days were sweltering hot, but she waited. It wasn't as if she didn't try to pass the time because she did. She tried.

She painted the sky, but she wasn't very good at that as it kept on changing every time she looked up from what she was painting.

She drew flowers, but they didn't look like the actual flowers, so she gave up pretty easily.

She read some poetry, but that became dull after the fourth time when she couldn't write anything else on the margins because she had already written something else.

She counted the willow tree leaves again. Her fours were starting to sound like how Harry said them, all posh and polished.

She played in the grass. It was fascinating to see how the ants scurried the crumbs of bread she laid out to the side over to their little ant colony. She had better luck drawing that.

She wrote his name out in the shaky cursive she was learning for secondary school. She wrote her name down beside it as well. And if there were little hearts with jagged scrawls mimicking a certain boy's scar doodled in the margins, who was to know?

A shrill squawk burst from above her. Her hand jolted, causing the pencil lead to break on the page and leave a nasty strike across the letter H she was writing. It was a Saturday, and her capital letters were looking very good up until that point, so she was quite indignant when her perfect curve was ruined.

Glancing up to give a scathing glare to whatever bird made that sound, her eyes blew open at the sight of two large tawny owls perched on one of the higher branches of the tree. That was the fourth time she'd seen an owl up and about that week. In broad daylight. Once was chance, twice was a coincidence, thrice was deliberate, and now that she's seen a fourth, it was incredulous. Astounding. Ridiculous. Completely ludicrous.

Much like her just waiting around under a tree with no answers.

That didn't stop her from waiting until the moon had risen past the tree lines and her beeper lit up with a short message from Tito Alan reminding her to get home soon.

Sunday would be the day, she thought, Sunday.

. 　。　　　　•　 　ﾟ　　。
　　.　　　.　　　 　　.　
。　　 。　.
　.　　 。　 ඞ 。　 . •
• .　 。　.　 　　
。　　　　　　ﾟ　　　
.　　　　　.
,　　　　.　 .　　 . 。

. 　。　　　　•　 　ﾟ　　。
　　.　　　.　　　 　　.　
。　　 。　.
　.　　 。　 ඞ 。　 . •
• .　 。　.　 　　
。　　　　　　ﾟ　　　
.　　　　　.
,　　　　.　 .　　 . 。