Storm 》Clifford A.U

014;

"SO, I DESCRIBED HER AND this guy said that she comes here every night for hours and draws in her notebook, and that she even has her own room. If I flirt hard enough I can get the key."

"Flirt with who?" I ask when Michael finishes speaking, quietly shutting the entrance door behind me.

"The milf of a key keeper that's in the basement of the art wing, duh." Michael says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, despite the fact that I know nothing of "milf's" or how exactly this school works.

"So get your flirt on and get the key." I tell him, and he blinks at me for a few seconds before snapping out of whatever trance he was in and nodding, lips parted as he says 'Oh, oh. Okay.' before heading in the direction of the basement.

While I wait for Michael, I sit on the ground and pull out the journal, the bookmark automatically opening it up to where I left it last. Michael was keeping things from me, so I figured I could read on and keep things from him, too. Besides, if anything was super monumental, I would tell him about it. The entries weren't usually dated, except for a few of them, so, I had no idea how much time had been passing between each one unless Darya wrote it out. Judging how her feelings had spiraled from brief interest, to kissing and frantic hiding and utter infatuation, I was going to guess they either got attached to each other very quickly, or, that months had gone by over the duration of these entries. Judging by Darya's character, I was going to go with the latter of the two.

Dear Diary,

He texted me asking if Ivy was gone. Like always, she was out. Out where? I have no idea. But I told him that I was alone and he responded with a smiley face, telling me to look outside of the window. I did as he asked and when I looked down I saw him, giggly with his hands buried in his pockets. His nose was red and the hood of his sweatshirt was drawn up. The air was bitterly cold and the little that managed to slip into the dorm room sent goosebumps crawling up along my skin. He simply pulled two slips of paper out of his pocket and said that Lana was on in two hours and that if I wanted to meet her like he planned, I would need to hurry.

God I love him, I really do. Everyday, he gives me the reassurance - be it through words or actions - that he loves me, too. And I think that's the best thing. Such a rare yet utterly beautiful thing. To love someone and to have them love you too. He hasn't even said it yet, but he doesn't have to. Because when you feel it, I think you just k n o w.

I shut the book, inhaling sharply. She was in love with this boy and I didn't even know who he was. For the first time in her life (to my knowledge at least, but, really, what did I even know at this point?) she had fallen in love and...and I didn't even know about it. Maybe she was planning on telling me. Maybe she was just waiting for the right time.

"I got the key," Michael breathes, skidding to a stop beside me while he wears a sly grin; hair a mess and cheeks flushed. We both knew exactly how he got that key, but I didn't even care. The important thing was that he got it.

"She was in love with him." I tell Michael quietly, shutting my eyes and swallowing hard as he presses the key into the lock. "I've been reading a little, and there aren't really that many details but... but they were really close and intimate and she was in love with him and she never told me." I repeat, even though I know I shouldn't because I am only hurting myself more.

"There's a reason, Al, there has to be." He insists, and then he is pushing the door to her art room open, and my breath gets caught in my throat when he flicks the light on, and I am flooded with hundreds of drawings and poems and letters of all sorts covering the walls. A bare wall, a bare spot is nowhere to be found, because Ivy has completely covered everything and it is a beautiful, beautiful mess.