Beautiful Mystery

From which stars have we fallen to meet each other here?

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1. Books ,Tattoos, and Spray Cans

 

 So Basically This is a one shot. Since im to busy to write full books now, Ill be writing one shots and Short stories. So ya... I hope you like it!

 

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   The thing about the park was that it was beautiful. Not many people saw that because all they saw were the dirty sidewalks, boys skateboarding, and the ducks that were way too loud when small children passed by. They didn't see the pond the way I did, a sunlit blue reflecting off the horizon; the way the leaves changed colors mid-September and crunched under the heel of your boot. They saw flashes of color and light and I saw beauty.

 

      I tended to find beauty in anything, however. I found beauty in going to work, the way the train smelled of hazelnut coffee and half-eaten bagels at seven in the morning; how we were all going to different places but in that moment, we were all united.

 

   And, of course, I found beauty in him. It was hard not to. He had those features that made you stop, made your heart constrict in your lungs and turn you into nothing but hot blood and brittle bones. He had that stare, that smolder that could see into you three shades deep until maybe he knew you better that you knew yourself. He had this way about him, this sensual air that followed him like a shadow, because smoking and graffiti shouldn't look so enticing, and leather jackets shouldn't look so appealing but of course, on him, they were.

 

 And he rode on a skateboard most days. Sometimes he'd be with his mate, this boy with pretty blue eyes that reminded me of a pixie, but most days he'd be alone. On those days he'd carry a sketchbook in one hand and spray cans in the other, hair up or hair down or covered with a beanie, depending on his mood. Sometimes he wore glasses and sometimes he wore contacts, but always his eyes ere as blinding as the sun.

 

   I've only said three words to him, dully documented after he nearly ran me over with his skateboard, jerking wildly while my nose was so deep into my book that I was breathing in the text like oxygen.

 

  "Shit, fuck;sorry!" I'd said. (And swear words had never sounded more like "I think i'm in love with you" in my life.)

 

  "You're fine,' he answered coolly, Because of course he'd answer things coolly, in that butterscotch and honey voice of his. He nodded at my book, eyelashes seeming long, and beautiful, like a feather pen dipped in fresh ink, "must be a really good then, yeah?"

 

 

  My brain short-circuited at that and all I could do was nod, and before I could say anything else his little pixie friend had called him over to where he was. He spared me a final little smile--tongue presses against teeth with a wrinkled nose--before he was pushing himself forward and his hoodie was only a faint green dot on the other side of the pond.

 

    That was also the day I learned his name: Zayn.

 

    But that was many moons ago and I've still made no progress, not like I was actually trying because I'd given up that idea ages ago. To quote one of my favorite books--the book I was reading the day I bumped into him at the park, actually--no matter how cliche this sounds; "we accept the love we think we deserve.". And there was no way that I deserved him. He was all smooth and velvet lips while I was harsh, rough concrete. He was a Polaroid snapshots and me? I was an image on a flip-phone. If people were an outfit, he'd be a tuxedo and i'd be socks.

 

 

    Which is why it didn't make sense why he boarded up to me now, his blue-eyes pixie pal about ten feet away shooting him a thumbs up, stopping in front of me. His scent alone made me breathless and dizzy and how was I supposed to survive a conversation with him?

 

   

   "Hi," he breathed, voice like the ocean under a summer sun,"Are you busy or-" He paused, mouth twisting hand tugging over the beanie that was covering half of his hair, "fuck. Like,um. You read. You like to read." He paused again, shooting a panicked look back to his friend, " I mean, um. I'm Zayn."

 

 

    How could a man so eloquent still look so perfect even when he trips over his words? "I know. I um, I come to this park a lot. And your friend screamed your name, once."

 

 

    He nodded. Eyes casting down to the board propped by his feet. "Yeah, um Louis. He like, he screams a lot. Sometimes--all the time actually. But like." He took a breath, tongue sweeping over his lip and you can't blame for following the movement because I'd be insane if I didn't. "You read?"

 

      "I like to read yeah."

 

   

     He nodded. "I like reading. And comics. And like, I have a tattoo of it? Like, of comics. That's why I like have the tattoo..." And the more he spoke the more his words sounded like they were tumbling over themselves like two clumsy feet. (And somehow he still sounded as smart as I always imagined him to be.)

 

   

    "That's cool. I don't really like tattoos, but--on me, I mean. On other people I think they look kind of cool, you know?"

 

   

    He nodded his head in response, teeth worrying his lip and hand tugging on his beanie once more. "I could show you the. Sometime. My tattoos. Or maybe. You could bring a book and we could read. Like, if you want. Or-"

 

 

     "I think I would like that." I breathed to him breathless, and a whole lot hopeful because we accept the love we think we deserve and maybe, just maybe, this was Fate's way of showing that I just might deserve him. "I'd like that a lot."

 

 

 

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