When people say that you shouldn't read someone's private epiphanies— diaries, notes, even their personal artwork— they probably say that for a reason. And a reason that's well-defined by the boundaries of sound judgment and logic. What Ryan hadn't anticipated after picking up the diary oh-so-casually was the fact that it will leave him in a burning rage. Of course, he couldn't demonstrate the feelings going on inside of him as of now, because he, like any other stranger, shouldn't even be bothered by a basic diary entry.
But he was bothered. He was more than bothered. And he didn't like it at all. Of course, he tried to reason it with the fact that every person has their own past, and so did Myra, but to no avail. He didn't like the fact that Myra was still so hungover over some human trash. But, in his humble opinion, 99.99% people in this world were human trash to him.
He had to get his head clear before he burst out in rage. Just when he contemplated that his birthday was going better than what he had previously anticipated, he was proven wrong. But, in all honesty, he brought this upon himself. This was the repercussion of his own choice.
Deciding that he couldn't take any more of it, he shut the diary rather too hastily and placed it as away from him as much possible. The small, round coffee table suddenly felt too small to him.
Ryan wanted to look elsewhere. Any other sight than this awful recollection of events. He looked to his right — there were more tables and it was still way too early for people to start coming in. He looked outside of the glass walls of the shop. The sun was still as bright as it was before, if not brighter. He looked to his left— there was Dahlia, who was still busy trying to talk to her little dolls and make them drink her sweet cold coffee in her small little cups.
He continued looking more and more at her and admired the kind of comfort she was in, irrespective of a stranger sitting opposite to her. Dahlia realised that she was being scrutinized. She looked up to meet the object of interest and smiled at him. Her smile was so genuine that Ryan couldn't help but automatically flash a smile back. One thing he always liked about kids was how carefree kids are. Because when you grow up, you start second-guessing everything that comes your way. You start feeling less powerful. Less invincible. You start feeling less unstoppable. And he didn't like that.
He simply wanted the world to know that was unstoppable. He simply was just more powerful than others. And that stood true.
He turned his head around to spot Myra. It had been some really long few minutes. She was gone for around 7 minutes already just to refill her cup. He looked back to see her chatting with the owner of the cafe — the barista even. She had her cup in her hand but just stood there talking to the lady.
Myra, as if a shiver ran down her spine, could feel the eyes of the stranger on her back. She wanted to turn around and look back at him, to challenge him, but she couldn't. She felt weak at that point. But that's the thing. She has always felt weak. If she had one thing to be envious of other, it was how well people had their lives together constantly while she was just pondering over the ground, trying to put two and two together.
She was constantly intimidated people who had their shit together in life for it made her feel out of place. She, too, stared at the canopy of blue skies while making her way back to the table. It is a wonderful shade of blue with warm, comforting yellow. The kind that brings in the calm and peace and engulfs you completely.
Conversely, this doesn't appeal to Myra anymore; she is tethered to the colors of gray. They're everywhere she goes. They're in and above her head. Heck, she sees the world in gray. She is tethered to the colors in her hometown- the home which is sad, broken, dark, and agonizing. How could she ever get used to the refreshing blues when all she can think of is those long hours of darkness to come.
She is tethered to a symphony of chaos- All in her head. Just for a while, she is thinking about the time she had back in the day. Now the sound of harsh winds come knocking at her door, ready to hit break the walls.
She is tethered to a concerto of mistakes and regrets. Jut for a while, she is pretending to be still in a place when she dream about the books in my head and the stars in my eyes. What a strange night. But what she is not tethered to is the fresh blues, the peaceful sights, the moonlights and the morning sonata. She can feel the emptiness. Every moment, it is ever-rising in her heart which is shaking with every passing second.
Yet, it is absolutely okay to not be okay. It's been a long day and perhaps will be an even longer night. She knows she will piece herself back together and she will be alright again. She is eternally waiting for the future, like a purple sunset after the stormy rain.
It is insane. It's a typical day, like every other day. People are being sucked in this mundane life, and she cannot try to find a way out for the life in her. She is running out of things to do, and more importantly, running out of excuses for the mad mess that she had come to be.
Except today she's soaking to a complete stranger over coffee. She had no idea what the rest of her life was going to be like.
She takes her seat next to the stranger again.
"So, you never really told me your name?"