— tears in rain

“Kinda embarrassing,” he agreed, but was referring to himself and not to the stranger. Jack smiled sheepishly, “But if this makes us become friends or something, it’ll be like a…like a…” He tried to remember the word, but his mind was too hazy from the weed he had just smoked. It took him longer than usual. “A meet-cute! A meet-cute. Like in The Holiday.” They looked down at their book, which had now suffered some wear and tear. “It’s really good. It’s a comic book about getting diagnosed with bipolar disorder and it’s really interesting.” He looked up, his eyes widening slightly, “I’m not though. Bipolar I mean. Not that it would matter but-” He shook his head, “Sorry.”

“Friends,” he repeated, the word sounding a bit out of place given their current predicament, or the one they’d just gotten out of, though it certainly wasn’t a bad thing altogether. It was different, yes, but he wouldn’t call it such a terrible thing. “Meet-cute is a... well, that’s one way to put it, I guess?” He laughed, something strangled in his throat in confusion, though he hoped it wouldn’t make the other feel like they were being ridiculed for their thoughts. Eyes darted towards their hands where the book was secured between their fingers, he said, “Well, I don’t really know much about those things. I do know people who might want to give it a read, though. People who are really into neurology and psychology and all that.” He nodded. “Sef, by the way.” He only nodded as a form of greeting, unsure if the stranger was a handshake kind of person or not. He wasn’t a big fan of it himself, reminded him too much of all the social functions his father would make him attend. “Since we’re heading down the meet-cute path, anyway. Might as well give you my name.”

Noah was caught off guard briefly, mostly because he intended to offer buying a drink in exchange, but laughed when the man made it clear he was joking. He frowned slightly. “No, Android, actually.” A girl who looked somewhere between 17 and 23 came over and asked if she could take a picture with him. He gave her a wide smile and agreed to the selfie. Noah asked if she’d be going to the show on Friday and pulled out a flyer. Asking her name, Noah wrote a quick note on the flyer and signed it for her. He gave her a hug and she skirried away excited, typing away on her phone furiously.

Before he could tell the stranger that he didn’t carry the charger for the type of phone he had, a young woman approached them---or the other man, he supposed---and seemed to have recognized him from somewhere. There was a mention of a show, and soon, pictures were taken, along with what seemed to be an autograph being given away before they were left to their own devices once more. Eyes trailing towards the satisfied ‘fanatic’, he watched her disappear into her booth of friends before turning back to the man. “That happen a lot to you?”

He smiled, glad that their class had enough of an impression on him that he would want to take a class with him again, knowing full well that he didn’t have to. Still, he wasn’t satisfied with the answer. He didn’t know if he should keep prying, or let Sef go about his normal day. Something told him to keep prying. “Okay. And what do you hope to get out of this class?” He inspected Sef’s facial features subtly, looking for any change in them, hoping that the nonverbal way he expressed himself would give him insight he had wanted. Although he wasn’t sure what that insight was exactly. 

It was a ridiculous question, or at least, he wanted to think it was. But he’d never say that out loud, lest he tear apart what seemed to be a decent impression he’d made on his professor. He raised his shoulders, limbs almost contracting within himself as he gripped the strap of his bag tighter. “Same as everyone?” Not quite true, though, was it? To be like ‘everyone’ would mean that it would be part of his curriculum, but no one told him to sign up for a class that had nothing to do with what he was currently in school for. “Learn something new, I guess.”

           “Well, I don’t sit around listening to those who are troubled… I mean, they money is great—” She couldn’t deny that, it was a great incentive. “But I don’t really like people.” It was a strange position to be in, but Sierra whipped out the ID stuffed in her back pocket and flashed it towards him. “I’m a former cop, so I’ve climbed the ladder a little bit. Psychologist for the NYPD. I work, mainly, with cops and detectives to determine who is allowed to carry weapons. Deal with PTSD, sickness leave, all that stuff…” Most people thought it was boring, but for Sierra it was a step in the right direction. “In ten years time? I want to be a profiler.“ That was the end goal, a point at which she would be happy in what she was doing. Until then it was hard graft and a lot of threats from chief’s across the state, “No— You wanna’ come talk to me? Become a cop, get yourself into a sticky situation and then you can come to my office.”

He hadn’t met very many people who had the kind of job she chose to pursue as a career, at least, no one like her specifically. Because he had, in fact, met a few med students here and there, been invited out to drinks by friends who were now probably licensed to diagnose him with an ambiguous disorder of sorts that he’d openly turn away in favor of asking whether or not there really was such a thing as ‘neurotypicality’, but to work with the people she was handling, in particular--- that wasn’t something you’d come upon everyday. It was noble, in ways he couldn’t yet describe, mainly because he couldn’t say he was too familiar with her. Not yet. But she seemed genuine, albeit still a bit tricky to weave around, but he was getting used to her rhythm. “Or I could just buy you a proper drink?” It was something he was testing out, but regretted as soon as he heard the words translated into something more vocal rather than just a thought in the back of his mind. He shook his head, sheepish, scolding himself for the sudden advance. “I, uh--- no, I mean! I don’t know where that came from. Ignore that, I’m just tired.” He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if she could look past it but decided that he would try, anyway. “I doubt your superiors would appreciate you turning up to work nursing a massive hangover, anyway,” he followed up with, again, his attempt at light humor.

“Is anyone?” Frankie paused, realising her mistake. “Well, no– yeah, I mean… Couples are. And hopeless romantics, but… I don’t know, it just feels like such a forced holiday, y’know?”

He thought for a while, a few seconds devoted to what his opinions were regarding a holiday he’d never been able to celebrate, not that he ever cared to. “I’m impartial to it,” he said, finally. "Only because I just could never relate, you know? But I get it. What you mean. It’s kind of like how we feel the need to dedicate specific days to celebrate our parents and our grandparents and our best friends. For Christ’s sake, they must mean something more to you than that.” He shrugged, outlining a number on his notebook several times until the ink thickened around it. “I guess the sentiment is nice, though. I mean, when you don’t think about how capitalistic this all is in the grand scheme of it.”

Jack looked up at the person he had run in to and smiled as best he could, although his face showed that they were obviously in pain and shaken. “Totally fine!” They let themselves sit for a moment, recollecting themselves, which took a bit longer because they were slightly buzzed. They grabbed their book and held it to their chest as they stood up and outstretched an arm to the stranger. “Need help?”

The blunt that rolled off the pavement didn’t go unnoticed, but he chose not comment for fear that the other might feel like they were being scrutinized. He was in no such position to do so. He shook his head, along with a dismissive wave of his hand at their offer, smiling instead. “Uh, no, it’s fine. I can- yeah.” He grunted as he pushed himself off the ground and dusted his shirt as well as the back of his jeans. “God, that was embarrassing.” He chuckled, trying to make the situation less awkward for the both of them. “Must be a good book, though?”

“Stop talking,” the brunette told some people near her, though unsure if the noise she heard even came from them. “Just look at this,” the brunette pointed out to a couple who were on the verge of breaking up. “I bet he just doesn’t want to go through the entire Valentine thing with her.” She paused for a moment, brow perked when the female seemed to not be having any part of this break up and proceeded to move closer. “Oh — oh, she’s going to give him a piece of her mind. We should make a bet? I think she’s going to dump her drink on him, as she should, since I heard mention of an ex.”

He considered her proposition for a moment, before deciding he had nothing to lose, and he thought himself as quite good at profiling just from sitting outside his building having a smoke every morning. “You’re on.” He pulled a ten-dollar bill from his pocket, smoothed out its crumples, and slid it over to her table. “She might resort to a slap.”

Noan didn’t mind the cold weather, in fact he preferred it over the blistering heat of summer, but one thing he hated about it being this cold was that he couldn’t sit out on his apartment stoop or fire escape and play his guitar. He made his way to a coffee shop and folded his lean frame into a booth, ordering a coffee to help defrost. Noah pulled out his phone and saw it’s battery was down to 5% and looked around. He spoke up to the person in the booth beside him. “Hi, you wouldn’t by any chance have a charger,  would you?”

“I do, but it’s for a cost,” he replied, already his best attempt at humor. His coffee was getting cold as he waited for his ‘date’ to show. A few weeks ago, he decided to try meeting people online, not out of loneliness but rather, out of curiosity. And... well, maybe a little of loneliness, but that was only spurred by all this Valentine’s fuss. “Sorry, that was--- yeah. No, I do.” He nodded, already rummaging through his bag, feeling over the books for the cord. “Wait, do you use Apple or...?”

“It’s nothing too pressing or daunting, you don’t have to look at me like that,” he joked, waiting for the rest of the students to leave the class. From what he remembered from Sef, he was a pretty reserved person. Never speaking up in class, handing in assignments that weren’t anywhere close to what his potential was. Vincent didn’t want him repeating those patterns. He saw something in Sef, even in their foundation elective, that he believed could be extraordinary if he put his best foot forward. Vincent wasn’t one to take interest in helping out students who came to ask him for the help. He found that the students who asked were only students who wanted him to stroke their ego, and that wasn’t who Vincent was. He sought out students to mentor based off of the things he felt they needed that he could provide. And from their first class together, Vincent felt that toward Sef. 

At the time he didn’t want to waste his energy on someone taking his class as an elective, but now that they were in a class that required a final performance, he felt as if there was more to teach him. The last student left the room and Vincent began, “I wanted to know why you’re taking this class. Not in a rude or condescending way, I remember the times you applied yourself in my last class fondly. But if I recall, you were studying something much different than what this class could offer you.” Their tone was curious, but not too pressing. He wanted to tailor his classes to the students he had in the room. And Sef seemed to be the most interesting one. The one who wouldn’t tell him unless he asked. 

“Oh, uh...?” He wasn’t sure how to respond without really knowing what he was supposed to respond to, so he waited for whatever it was that Professor Reeves wanted to bring up to be mentioned. He never found the man to be terribly intimidating, only slightly so, though it wasn’t because of his personality---he was a mild-mannered gentleman more approachable than most of the faculty on campus, a little odd at times, but he’d always just attributed that to how there probably was no one person that wasn’t---but because of his mastery of something that Sef had little to no knowledge about. Music, to him, was something that came out of a playlist he’d followed in an app or what he heard in a restaurant. Nothing more. The way Professor Reeves spoke about music was, to him, in an entirely different dimension.

So it was only right for him to ask what he was doing in an elective class class, and auditing it, no less, when his focus was anywhere but in the arts. He could ask himself the same question, to which he’d be able to answer with perfect coherency if he tried, but he wouldn’t. Not without little honesty he’d be willing to give up. “I just...” He began, trying to come up with a less ridiculous answer than the glib words he was almost tempted to offer. Surely, the professor deserved something more than that if he took the time of day to ask him why he was in the room where others might not have even noticed. “I was just... curious, is all. I mean- I... I liked your last class.” He nodded.

They were trapped in their book, reading page to page hungrily as they walked home from work. The night was coming to an end and the sun had just begun rising, but not enough to light his page the way he needed it to be lit. So every few steps, as a new streetlight would illuminate the pages just right, he continued on- his eyes never fully able to focus. But it didn’t stop him, his mind racing with wonder at the words on the page. At this point, they were used to the path to go home, used to the steps they needed to take. In their free hand was a joint, which he took puff of periodically, the smell and the smoke surrounding him as he walked. They had seen a few people walking around with roses, but thought nothing of it. It was almost Valentine’s Day, and maybe they were only being cute. And they were usually alone, no one to run in to. Or, that’s what they thought. Until they came crashing forward into someone, his book flying across the pavement, the joint following suit. Both of them collapsing to the ground, bashing heads along the way. They sat up and put their hand to their head, eyes shut in embarrassment. “I am. so sorry.” 

He’d seen the other approach, head bowed towards the book in their hands--- a peculiar way of reading, especially at this hour, and while walking, no less. But he wasn’t one to make presumptions about people and why they did the things they did, mostly because he’d never come upon an answer before. He expected them to dodge or at least look up once they got closer, hence why he kept steady in his course, but found that neither of them had moved away in time before the expected collision. Shoulder to shoulder and foreheads knocking together on impact, he fell unsteady before landing on his bottom, body turned to the side as the ache made itself known on his arm. “Fuck,” he mumbled before recollecting himself enough to push himself up into a sitting position. Thankfully, there weren’t many people around, and if there were, they couldn’t have noticed or cared less. “It’s... uh, it’s fine.” He groaned slightly, rubbing his forehead that was sure to form a small bump in the next few hours. “You okay?”

“What the fuck’s with all these–”

Frankie waved in the direction of a passerby, who just so happened to be happily clutching one of the many roses that had been handed out in time for the Rose Syndicate. She sighed, watching as another stranger dashed into the arms of their partner, handing them their rose as a gift.  “Fuckin’… Mushy, man.”

Sitting next to her from where they were sat on the bench, scribbling notes on a piece of paper as he attempted to solve an equation for his class later on, he looked up at her words, eyes trailing towards where her attention was fixed upon before turning to her. “Not a fan of Valentine’s?”

                 She wasn’t going to change her mind, Sierra was a decisive person; once her mind was made up, it would be hard to change it. When it came down to work, especially — “I mean, if you were a cleaner, the last thing you’d do for your friends is clean their homes in your spare time.” She shrugged, “And anyway I’m not a psychologist. I don’t get paid a hundred bucks an hour to sit and listen.” That’s when she paused, thinking. “Though, if you give me a hundred bucks I’ll… Sit an listen.” It had crossed her mind to become a counsellor or something of the sort, but as someone who battled her own demons and still didn’t know how to control them all, helping someone else do that seemed pointless.

“What kind of a psychologist are you, then?” He hoped he wasn’t coming on too forward or probing too much into things that would’ve soon revealed themselves to him through time, but he was intrigued by her, and who knows if they’d ever speak again, anyway? He huffed out a breathy laugh at her offer. “Thanks, I'll keep you in mind. Would you happen to have a calling card on you?” He was mostly joking, although if she ever made one appear between her fingers, he’d take it. He wouldn’t seriously consider it, but the option would be there.

              For someone who desperately sought the feeling of being wanted, Sierra was usually happier when she was alone. At least for a little while — She struggled to cope in situations where she didn’t have the option of being on her own; even in relationships, she needed an escape room. Being on her own sucked, but so did being with people… There wasn’t any winning, not really at least. Instead she made the most of whatever situation each year would bring, “Mechanical Engineering?” Fuck that. “I know absolutely nothing about that.” She chuckled, looking up at the sky. “Honestly, I don’t get get that reference.” Sierra shrugged, wondering if it would have been amusing if she did. It wasn’t her thing and given the lack of movie education, slash, tolerance she had it went straight over her head. Dark eyes narrowed before rolling to the back of her head, “No.”

Quiet, breathy laughter resounded at her reaction to him telling her what he was studying, though he was used to people being overwhelmed by the thought of having to deal with the process that went into designing machinery, as most people were inclined to just use them rather than make them. He wouldn’t blame her, though. Once upon a time, he knew nothing about it as well as she didn’t. “Can’t say I know a whole lot about psychology, either.” He shrugged, keeping an amicable smile adorning his lips, only widening at her admission. “I didn’t make a reference, though, but it’s... it’s fine. I should’ve been, uh... clearer, I guess.” he told her, suddenly feeling awkward at the miscommunication as he rubbed the back of his neck. Her glaring no had him dropping his hand to his side, expression faltering into disappointment. “No?” he repeated, despite how he’d heard her clearly the first time. “I mean, just as well--- I’d hate to have my deep-seated childhood issues spilled out into the open.” There was a chuckle that seemed out of place at the terrible joke he wished he’d delivered with more finesse. It seemed he was significantly more confident when he had a little alcohol in his system.

@sefseneca

Another semester, another round of beginners classes. Teaching new, unsure students about composition was always his favorite. Especially when they didn’t know much about music to begin with, other than some basic elements you’re taught in the class that is meant to come before the class he was teaching now. He walked into class just as it was about to start, and almost immediately made eye contact with a student he had had a few years ago. This was their third week of classes at this point, but he was really the only student that stood out to him out of the others. He had changed with time, seeming to be more focused on what he had to say than he did when he took his class the first time. Vincent wondered what changed. When the class came to a close Vincent was at the desk at the front of the room, packing up his things and watching as Sef packed up his things by his keyboard too. The rest of the class had almost filed out completely when he walked past him. “Hey, Sef,” he said, remembering the name he preferred from their last class. “Can I speak with you?” 

He had plenty of creative outlets. Plenty, meaning helping his sister cut out shapes with ‘real’ scissors rather than the kid-friendly ones or spreading her signature pink glitter all over her work that’ll make the other kids at daycare jealous at her (or her brother’s) handiwork. But it was from his own epiphanies that he realized he doesn’t have a lot going on for him in terms of creatively expressing himself, and he’d always attributed that to his being more technically inclined, to being better at numbers and logic and working with his hands. But a few conversations with his more artistic friends who seem to find solace in their work allowed him to explore his curiosity for the arts and why he hadn’t ventured towards it, asking himself if the only reason he took up engineering was because he was good at it, because he never considered anything else.

Which was how he found himself sitting in a classroom with a few familiar faces here and there, scribbling musical terminology on his notepad that he vaguely remembered from his previous classes with the same professor, although he wasn’t sure if he remembered him at all. He wouldn’t be surprised if his face was forgotten along with his name, lost in the pile of unremarkable students who just didn’t try hard enough. His assumptions were proven wrong, however, when his name was called just as he was making his way towards the door with the rest of the class. Turning his head towards the voice, he donned a confused expression upon seeing who tried to get his attention, and even more as he thought about what he could’ve possibly wanted to talk about. “Uh, yeah... sure?” he said, gripping the strap of his bag as he walked towards his professor.