1
Visha
“What’s your name, kid?” His voice is as tender as a cloud and somewhat familiar like a soul I’ve always known yet can’t remember.
Adults are usually more condescending when talking to me. Often, they dumb down their speech as if I lack brain cells. It’s infuriating.
Such a simple question but my mind goes blank.
What good is a name if the only people calling it use it with hate?
My fingers are so cold they could snap and fall off at any moment. He extends his hand with an affectionate smile, but I ignore it. I blink at the gesture and the manner in which he stays motionless.
He’s going to get mad, isn’t he? They always get mad whenever I refuse something. I can’t bring myself to look up at him.
“Oh, right. Kids shouldn’t talk to strangers.” He chuckles. “You’ve been taught well.”
He isn’t mad. Not at all. His face is bright as he rubs his hands and sniffles in the December night breeze. Every time I exhale, I see my breath go up in the clouded sky. I’m so tired and almost dare to daydream of a warm place to return to.
I don’t have one anymore. At least not one I can callhome.
“What’s yours?” I ask for no particular reason. I don’t especially care about his name, so why did I even ask? What a moron.
My eyes follow his every movement as he crouches down with a grin coating his lips then takes off his midnight blue scarf to wrap it around my neck. “You’re going to catch a cold if you stay out here with such light clothes,” he remarks, and I flinch at the graze of his gloved hand against my cheek.
His smile falters for a second but he recollects himself instantly. Does he pity me? He can shove that up his ass for all I care. Pity never brought me anything. Adults love to pretend to care about other people’s miseries and shame them. How about genuinely helping?!
I can’t remember how long I’ve been sitting out here. A few minutes? Hours? It doesn’t really matter in the end since I have to go back sooner or later. I’ll probably get scolded again and ‘dad’ will give me a beating for going out without permission.
What would happen if I decided to stay here and freeze to death instead of heading back? I doubt anyone would even notice if I disappeared tonight and never returned. One more dying petal fallen from the cherry blossom tree.
The young man’s smile is so warm and so is his scarf. I can’t stop myself from burying my nose in it and inhaling his scent. Citrus and Jasmine dance around my nostrils, making my lashes flutter in strange delight. I wonder which cologne he uses. I think I could fall asleep with this scent.
Wait, why the hell am I thinking such odd things about some random guy? Did I finally lose my mind from the beatings and the cold?
“Seems like you like the scarf, huh?” He grins, getting back up and stretching out his legs. “It’s yours now. Consider it a Christmas gift or a simple act of benevolence from a stranger. Ah, but maybe that’s weird? You can throw it away if you want, but it’ll keep you warm for now.”
An angel.
That’s what he is or else why does he show a complete stranger such kindness? I’m just a random kid in the streets on Christmas Eve and yet I got a gift from the most beautiful man I’ve ever encountered. This can’t be my luck shifting, can it? Yeah, right as if.
He doesn’t look down on me, at least I hope not. Throw it away? Like hell I would.
“Visha,” I mumble, surprising both of us.
The man cocks his head slightly and blinks down at me visibly confused, so I repeat myself louder. “Visha.”
For some reason I flush in embarrassment, and I bury my entire face in his scarf. My cheeks heat up to my ears and it seems to be a funny sight because he bursts out laughing.
His voice is like honey as he says, “Your name I presume?”
I nod, barely lifting my eyes to look at his. Ocean. It’s the first thought that flashes through my mind as I take them in, they’re a deep blue like the ocean. Slightly lighter than the scarf.
Is he making fun of me? What a douche. Here I thought he was an angel, but he makes fun of me? I can’t even master the strength to be mad because his laughter sounds like music, and it warms me up inside. His hands are stuffed in his pockets as he sighs.
“I’m not sure if your parents hate you or love you,” he says, exhaling without a care in the world.
The moment those words dare leave his mouth I get up in fury. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
