the gray skies remind chan of falls in france .   of the singular winter she had in new york city .   that winter had been a brutally cold thing that chased people indoors to avoid the weather  â  the wind had felt like a monster in its own right,  like something with sharp teeth .   she had spent those months in the underbelly of nyu,  tucked away compiling research until the season thawed .   but for a girl whose talents require her to be inside,  surrounded by blue - lit monitors and the resonant click of keyboards,  she sure chases the sun .   chan remembers planting a flower that year that sat in the windowsill of her dorm,  where it would lean desperately toward whatever spare sunlight it could find .   like it would grow with their combined determination alone .   she could relate .
the plant didnât make it to march .   suppose thereâs a metaphor in there somewhere .
at gallagher,  though,  the gray skies bring a hush across the campus,  a certain calm,  that she had grown to appreciate .   the brunette is cutting between the greenhouse and the main building when a blonde catches her eye,  and she pauses,  waiting expectantly until bowie looks over .   thatâs invitation enough,  even before the other girl pulls her headphones away .   when chan reaches her side and bowie speaks,  a brow upticks and she laughs shortly .    â  donât sound so full of yourself .  â    itâs borderline cold in the gallagher skirt,  but she drops to stretch out against the grass regardless .   a grin twitches at the corner of her lips .   â  i was trying to figure out who was mad enough to be laying out here in this uniform .  â
   there is a certain chaos that accompanies chanâs comment because all in one fellow swoop she manages to label both bowie AND herself as mad and bowie would be lying if she said itâs anything less than alluring. rather than spend any time questioning bowieâs disposition the way another might, sheâs throwing her own disposition at bowie. not in the fashion where others talk to fill the silence bowie leaves, narcissists telling themselves and others of their samaritan-like deed of doing so.
   it takes bowie an extra beat longer than most to respond. she chooses words carefully and thoughtfully or she chooses nothing at all. few times have proven the sentiment wrong. chantal has bowie at a LOSS. she is WANTING and simultaneously NOT wanting to ask, âhave you figured it out?â a question ensures that a conversation continues and itâs not that itâs what she wants, but it comes so naturally that it feels necessary, as if destined by the universe to inhabit the same gravitational pull. the suns not out so bowie takes her sunnies off to get a better look at chantal, suddenly intrigued by something, someone, enough to want to see it in its full brightness, contrast and saturation.Â
   bowie leans in. not for a kiss. not to get a closer look. not to better hear what chantal has to say. no, the blonde leans in to test chanâs boundaries where bowie has none. she is so close that their noseâs brush and the fact that such closeness in proximity is permitted gets bowie to speak. itâs not a question because bowie has mormon FAITH --- an internal, gut feeling of TRUST that chan will somehow reciprocate. closeness kept, face straight, voice pure and the rest of her unkempt, bowie responds to chanâs mention of MADNESS in the same way she recalls a blonde named alice had done: âall the best people, thatâs who.â
