Monday:
I observe her silently at the table in the corner as she prepares my Americano. I take in the way her dainty hands shake slightly as she pours the steaming milk into the mug in precise measurements. I watch as her short tendrils spill over her face and almost keel over when she lets out a puff of air causing the hair to billow around her face before settling out of her eyes.
I engrain all of these small details in my brain like some stalker. Which, I am afraid I’m becoming.
I’ve come to the café for two days in a row now and even though I would definitely deny it if anyone asked me, I can’t help but feel a strange pull towards Layla. There is something about her that is so intriguing; it could be her timid nature, her unassuming beauty, or her weird quirk. Whatever it is, I find myself wanting to see more of her.
Small footsteps catch my attention and I look up just in time to catch Layla setting down my drink shakily, her eyes on the floor. It concerns me that she always seems to be anxious, but then again many people have natural tremors in their hands.
She begins to walk back to the counter without a word and I panic slightly. My throat clears violently and serves in catching her attention. However, once her eyes meet mine anything I was going to say seems to fly out the window.
The sunlight from the window seems to hit her at an upward angle, basking her in the warm orange glow. Her red hair resembles fire in the light and I wonder if it would burn to run my fingers through it. But, it’s her eyes that cause the words to die in my throat. In the light they are an almost translucent shade of jade, but still so guarded and filled with a resigned sorrow. It’s the kind of green that peeks through blankets of snow to reassure you that spring is coming –that there is hope.
My mouth open and closes a few times and I’m sure I resemble a fish out of water because Layla shoots me an odd look when nothing comes out of my mouth. She sends me a polite smile before turning back around and heading behind the counter.
A frustrated sigh leaves my mouth from my sudden muteness and a warmth creep up my cheeks. She probably thinks I’m some awkward weirdo now.
Smooth, Harry. Smooth.
Tuesday:
Her hair is up today.
It seems that the untamed short length is hard for her to maintain while filling coffee and wiping down the counter. So, before preparing my order she brings her hands up to tie her hair into a complicated knot –though the length of her hair does make this difficult.
My hand can barely keep up with her fast movements as I sketch as many details as I can before my shift at the shop starts. She looks more tired than usual; her eyes a dull moss green today and the bags under her them deeper than ever.
She’s wearing a denim dress that showcases her long and fit legs, but strikes me as odd considering it’s still freezing out. But, I don’t mind at all.
She catches my eye a few times today, but never holds the contact for long. I don’t mind, only continuing to observe her in awe.
Her hair is up today.
Wednesday:
Layla has just set down my usual –still refusing to meet my eyes- when Niall saunters in with a shit-eating grin on his face. He waves at a quiet Layla before making his way over to me, his smile growing even wider.
I slump in my seat already aware of how this conversation is going to go.
“So, this is where you’ve been sneaking off to in the wee hours?” The chair makes a screeching noise against the hardwood as Niall sits in it and I notice Layla jump slightly form the corner of my eye.
YOU ARE READING
Savior
Fanfiction"I am the hero of this story. I don't need to be saved." Layla Scott is on the run. She changes her name, chops off her long locks, and takes out all the money in her savings account to move across the world. Layla is doing whatever it takes to star...
