He’d continued to lie down the wooden bench without much than a single care of his surroundings. He looked so carefree, as if he’d not a single worry in the world whatsoever. I couldn’t judge however, as I had no clue to his thoughts. The winds had ceased to blow, the skies turning brighter, warmer. Beads of sweat trickle down our foreheads. With no particular business to attend to, I accompanied him.

It were just him and I, the two of us.

“Ahh! How do people stand and survive through this damned heat?! It’s like a freakin’ oven!” He complained, with a frustrated voice. “They just have to. Patience. It can’t be helped anyways.” I say as my face forms into a smirk.

The winds announced its arrival and my untied hair blows in its direction. Fluttering, the brown hair I had and will always be so proud of. Its color shines under the reflection of the sun and it looked as if it’ll glow somehow, one way or another.

“Do winds have mood swings?” I asked. It was to no one in particular but the question aimed towards him seemingly. Unfortunately, no answer was to be heard as he had then fallen asleep yet again.

The short moments of silence continued as well as the short-lived conversations. His desire to sleep, more accurately, nap was problematical. We would start random conversations only to have it end after brief breaths and sentences later. It was time yet again, we woke, I spoke; it was that kind of cycle. Only that I took hold of his hand, the one that laid swinging lazily by his side.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Unknowing on what to expect, and with complex feelings I’d realised that he had big hands, fragile hands. I took it and played with them, the delicate fingers I had once envied. By pinching the skin, by pulling on to the slim fingers.

“You have big hands” I praised.

“They’re like a girls’.” He returned. A tint of frustration could be noticed.

Assumingly, he did not like his delicate, feminine hands. Yet I found them surprisingly nice in a way. Slowly, he broke his sands from mine and stared blankly at his palms. “They’re…. too… thin...” he mumbled softly, it was but a faint whisper. Unheard by passer-by’s maybe, and unlucky for him, I heard them. So I reached for it, those delicate, thin hands.

“Go to sleep.” I ordered.

“Why?” he playfully questioned, not a single hint of former frustration to be heard. I frowned, and playfully hit him. “What’s with you and come-backs? Go to sleep!” My voice firm but not angry. As he met my eyes a look of what-about-my-hand could be seen, so I answered his gaze, “Just let me hold them for a bit longer…”

A soft chuckle could be heard resonating in the peaceful atmosphere.