What does a stranger know about my parents? People always assume whatever they want, and judge others based on the scrap they know. He’s like everyone else then.
I start unwrapping the scarf, brows creasing, but he stops me. His warm, covered hand on mine, refraining me from further unravelling it.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he blurts, holding a hand up. “I was wondering because of the meaning of your name. See, Visha stems from Hindu culture but also Sanskrit and can mean 'poison' and 'star'. So, it was hard for me not to be curious. I tend to speak before thinking. Sorry, if I was being inconsiderate,” he says quietly as he rewraps the scarf around my neck and carefully tugs on it.
“That’s stupid.”
It doesn’t matter what it means. Names don’t have meanings. Those who believe otherwise are wrong to think that they have any significance in the world. Our lives are all trivial. Whenever one calls my name, it’s to spit insults at me or to scold me. It’s always spoken with disdain and disgust so who cares about its significance?
“Maybe it is but you know what? I find it to be beautiful and very befitting of its owner.” He pats my head and brushes away the snow that has been piling up on top. “The duality matters. I personally think it tells a lot about you as an individual and what kind of people your parents are.”
It’s a simple touch of his gloved hand and yet my body ignites. No one has ever patted my head, and I doubt they ever wanted to.
“Really?”
He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You disagree?”
I stare at his pale face for a moment, counting the seconds ticking in my mind before I say, “I don’t know.”
His face doesn’t betray a single clue while he keeps a bright smile plastered on at every moment. It seems so genuine that it makes me want to vomit. He can’t actually be sincere. Adults are all the same. Each and every one of them is wretched and rotten to the core. They can’t be trusted.Ever.
“It’s late. You should go home,” he urges and takes a step back.
He’s going to leave. Of course, he is. I mean he doesn’t know me, so he has no reason to stay. It’s natural. He must have someone to head back to. I’m not a priority. Then why does my heart clench in my ribcage? Ugh, I’m going to regret it, but I have to keep him from leaving.
“I don’t have a home,” I admit, sounding pathetic but for once I don’t care.
If it makes him stay even a bit longer, then I’ll tolerate being momentarily more woeful than I truly am. Grownups can’t be trusted but somehow, I want to trusthim.
He stops in his tracks and watches me, expressionless. Something akin to sympathy flickers in his gaze but it fades as soon as it appears. It’s strange how he analyses me, my clothes, my face, my hair and even my stance. I hate being watched and scrutinized.
“You don’t have a home? That’s…bad.” He grimaces, awkwardly glancing around himself.
“Duh.”
“Mhm?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Yeah, no shit Sherlock. I have somewhere to head back to, but I really don’t want to go. I hate that place, and they hate me too. Those fake parents and fake siblings. None of them want me there, so why even foster me in the first place?
He holds his chin between two fingers and looks away for a moment, pensive. “Well then. Would you want to come with me?”
Normally, I’d be alarmed and outright refuse, but he seems conflicted with his own offer. He looks like he’s the one being asked and not the other way around. What a funny man.
He extends his hand to me again and this time, without hesitation I grasp it. A strange buzzing in my veins whispers at me to run the other way but I ignore it.
I want to trust someone. Just this once, I want to take a leap of faith. Things can’t get worse anyway, can they?
“Well then, shall we?”
I nod as he leads us down the main road. Despite the snow still falling in thick coats, I don’t feel the frost settling in my bones. No seriously, he’s a literal walking radiator. I can almost feel the warmth of his hand emanating through his glove. Maybe he’s an alien from mars after all rather than an envoy of the heavens.
A saying pops up in my mind for a figment of a second.
Cold hands, warm heart.
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