a x o n ▶ d . h {#wattys2016}

01 ⊳ yellow lines

01 丨 yellow lines

The air smelt thickly of freshly fallen rain and miscellaneous droplets scattered throughout the suburban neighborhood in which Dan lived. Dampness circled around the block as if it were a definite object and he felt as if he could feel the cold droplets falling onto his pallid skin. Small hairs curled in response to the crisp air and the steady sound of falling droplets floated charismatically through the air; his breaths came out in small puffs as his worn sneakers reached up the hill. His feet were aching and legs felt weak but he cared not as the trek continued, passing his house, not daring to look up at what vision he would surely be greeted with. The worn, black blouse adorning his torso clung to him as if it's very livelihood depended on it as he heaved in and out.

Ominous clouds threatened to spill out over the horizon, as if it were constricted by the rooftops of arbitrary houses. "Who are you?" A voice spoke in the charade of unusual silence, Dan's dark eyes darted upwards, his mouth gaping in surprise; his muted hands reaching to push the small quiff in his hair away from his eyes. Behind him sat a boy, much like him with anemic skin and weary eyes; whispered to by the ocean crashing against rocky shores. Who was he? Dan asked himself as he stared at the boy before him, sitting nonchalantly in the street. Between the industrially painted yellow lines the Dan found him calmly seated.

"Why are you sitting in the middle of the road?" The standing boy asked, stopping his perennial parade for the first time in hours.

"The better question is why you're walking here, your eyes dead and voice close to cracking." The seated boy stated, his cerulean eyes darting from one spot to the other, never seeming to focus on him, or rather anything else. "So, I ask again, who are you?"

"Dan. You?"

"Dan, what sort of name is that? How're people to expect that you'll do great things rather than common ones if your name is as common as day? It seems rather ironic, doesn't it? You being given a recurrent name, to suit a recurrent boy, although all these boys want to do is more-- to do something big. Life changing." He laid down, his eyes tracing the sky's patterns and his hands spread out around him. "Maybe that's why you're so sad."

"Who are you?" Dan demanded, shaken with the peculiar and derogatory taste of bitterness in his mouth as he realized this boy was right, whoever this arbitrary, odd boy was, he was right in more ways than one. And it bothered him.

"Phil." Phil lazily puffed out, his eyes suddenly stopping completely as they focused on Dan's lanky frame, "Phil Lester, you know, sometimes though; only sometimes; it's okay to be not okay. It's better than being so sporadic not a soul can relate. Burdens get heavy, lies get large, memories hazy. That's why roads are perfect. I don't know why I came out here, walked a mile in a stupor then just sat. Sat for hours and hours, eyes darting and mind wandering. The mind is like a maze, you know, when you first go through it, maybe for a stroll, or a pleasant journey; you're okay. But not when you stay there so long you get lost there. I guess I'm lost now too. Maybe I'm hoping someone will hit me, maybe I'm hoping that someone will notice me, I don't know."

"Well I'm here." Dan whispered, his voice hoarse.

"You, with your red and blue personality, sunken eyes; I bet that's why I told all this to you, alone in the road. Cause I'll never see you again. And maybe, you can relate."