Her Tears

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Ohaii Wattpadians. I come in peace. This is my sad attempt at a one shot. vote/Comment if it was worth the time I put into it  :) Thank youuu!

Their love was as strange as they were. They were freaks in that school, and they knew it. But since they had each other, they didn't care.

She was the girl who couldn't cry, the girl who scratched at bathroom tiles and made choking noises every time someone called her ugly. She was the girl with the tousled hair and the sharp eyes. She was the girl who always had eye drops in her pocket and a pair of sunglasses on hand. She was the girl who blindfolded herself during spring-cleaning day. She was the girl who couldn't cry, and that was that.

He, on the other hand, was a constant presence in detention. He colored the bulletin board red with ketchup, climbed over barbed-wire fences and made bracelets for himself out of rusty nails from construction sites. He slicked his hair back with egg whites, painted his nails black with permanent marker, and was the top student in class. He read books from front to back and back to front and over again, and he could recite pi until its twenty-seventh digit.

They were perfect for each other.

How he convinced her to trust him, we will never know, but something happened that day he found her pounding futilely at the bathroom walls, and that something was the beginning of something else.

She took him with her when she went for eye exams, and he harassed the doctor by asking question after question after question. Then he brought her to the trailer park and introduced her to the aging hippies with their dangling peace signs and eyebags the color of day-old bruises. She let him braid her hair, and he let her shuffle through his collection of antique sunglasses.

He stole a brand-name backpack for her, and she made him give it back. Then she sneaked him out of detention by telling the principal that she was hit on the head by a lunch tray that afternoon. In return, he took her to the park and they sat all day on the seesaw. He taught her Math, and she taught him etiquette. She wrote him letters and he read her books. He bought her eye-drops and she made him bracelets.

The sweetness was all in the little things.

They talked, most importantly, past sunrise and until sunset. They were never seen without each other.

Valentine's Day came around, and he made her a bouquet of white roses out of origami paper, because he knew that the color red hurt her eyes. (He even washed the bulletin board clean, after seeing her glance at it and wince.) And while the other girls burst into hysterical tears at the lopsided rhymes their boyfriends had copied off Hallmark cards, she simply hung the bouquet in front of her locker, and asked him to read the sonnet he had composed on the back of his English paper out loud to her.

He knew she couldn't cry over his makeshift flowers, and he knew she wouldn't sniffle at the sonnet, but she hugged him, and her fingers gently traced the scar that cut cruelly across his left eyebrow, and right then and there, that was all he needed.

She secretly took pictures of him, and when he wasn't looking, she slipped that entire scrapbook into his locker. In return, he used up an entire pad of Post-Its in writing fifteen-word poems to her.

The school knew they were in love. They watched them eat lunch together, her head with the tangled red hair bent close to his gleaming black spikes. They saw the way his hand found hers under the tables, studded leather bracelets brushing against soft pale skin. The nosier ones read the poems Scotch-taped to the respective lockers, her small, neat script, and his jagged black letters that were almost carved into the paper.

Their names were constantly in school gossip, and they sneered at the girl and laughed at the boy. But it was obvious that they were jealous, they were all jealous, and soon enough, realizing their foolishness, they left the two alone.

The word 'love' was never mentioned. They didn't need it, did they? With their stolen kisses and their fingers entwined, and daily poetry, each sestina more beautiful than the last. Did they need to declare what was already apparent? You could read it in his smile when he touched her, in the way his eyes would close when he kissed her. The girl who never cried, but rarely smiled, had found happiness, and somehow, she had changed since she met him.

She glowed.

But it was always there, hanging in the air between them, like doubt, like a missing piece in a beautiful puzzle.

He said it first. She believed it first.

"I love you. You know that." he said, as they swung lazily from tires attached with fraying rope to low-hanging tree branches. "I love you." he said again, when she bent her head and did not reply. "I know that." Her voice was soft again. "Do you believe it?" he asked, drawing closer, taking her hand.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. She smiled, laid a hand on his cheek. She closed her eyes in answer to his question and the tears ran down down down.

"You're crying." he whispered, unbelieving. She cupped the bottle of eye-drops into her palm, hiding it. It was empty now. "Yes. I am." she lied. And he kissed her tears away, never once mentioning to her that they were bitter.

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Her Tears

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