How to Fall in Love ✔

FROM THE VAULT || miles in the past (i)

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hi! This is a little something I actually posted before, and I thought it'd be fun to bring it back for those that want to reminisce. It's a glimpse of the past—from Miles' POV.

This is for all of you, who loved Miles most, and wished he was there first in Mia's life before Finn.

But this is a different story. There will be no crybaby, there will be no Challuring. There will be no Finn.

This is Miles Royal's story, before any of that. Before he was Challuring. When he was nineteen. When he first fell in love.

I hope you like it <3

P.S. This was written almost ten years ago and remains to be unedited. Enjoy the silly cheesiness :)

ABOUT:

"And that was the first of the nineteen times I met her, gazed at the storm in her eyes, and took in the fierceness, the calmness, of her red hair. The first of the nineteen times that slowly, then fast, then slowly again, depicted the sad, sometimes happy, and always tragic tale of how I fell in love."

Just one semester. Of life. Of love. Of each other.

Just one semester. Before they never see each other again.

Just one semester.

One (?) shot spin-off to "How to Fall in Love," set two years before.

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m i l e s '  p o v

[  t r a n s a t l a n t i c i s m  ]

OUR FIRST MEETING was cinematic.

That was the only word to put it—the sky was angry with thunderous, clapping rain pouring all over us. It was dark, it was chilly, it felt like some ghastly ghost town. And here was the kicker—it was only the two of us.

But there were two benches and two sidewalks.

One bench on one sidewalk was where I was sat. The other bench on the other sidewalk was where she was sat. I had a yellow umbrella propped in between my knees to protect me from the volatile downpour. She had a red umbrella in her cold hands to do the same. I had a leather jacket on to keep my lungs from freezing. She had nothing but a simple yellow dress that matched her red umbrella.

There was a total of twenty feet from my bench to hers. There was a total of twenty feet from her bench to mine.

I was looking at her, her pallid features and petite shape the best I could make out through the chilling rain. She was . . . looking at me, noticing the stranger waiting for the bus on the other side of the street, for the first time. (It was about time.)

The longer I looked at her, and the longer she looked at me, she was getting clearer and clearer—as if there was no rain to blur my vision. I could make out her other features—her lips were a bit small on the whole of her face, almost disproportionate. Her eyes were big, and they looked stormy, but that could be the work of the ongoing storm. But most of all, she had red hair, fiery as the clouds above, but falling in soft waves like an ocean on calm days.