Title: Gravity
Summary: He revolves around her like a satellite, his blazing sun. She burns forever brightly, never noticing his shadow in the distance.

A/N: Quote at the end is by the one and only Albert Einstein. Because he's awesome. And has cool hair. This was written for two reasons. One is the dedication below. Poor friend his hopelessly devoted to this girl who is entirely out of his league... and not in a cliched way, but just... in general. Don't get me wrong. She's suuuper nice, but he just has no chance. Poor guy. And also, this is partly written for a school-based assessment in which we had to write some story, and break as many of the normal writing conventions as possible. I didn't really do that much, but I stuck random words everywhere, fragmentified sentences, and basically messed around with the idea that the way in which text is presented has an effect on how it is interpreted. Which is the reason for the s p a c e d o u t letters. I put those in different fonts with different sizes and things. But fictionpress is a jerkface, and won't let me do that. So yeah. Reaaad and review, please maybe?

--

For a friend,
who is also a victim
of gravity.

It’s pouring, bucketing down. Literally, it might as well be raining cats and dogs. Big, fat raindrops make pat pat pat sounds on the beaten dirt, throwing up little dust clouds that are half mud already.

S a t u r a t i o n .

Within minutes, everything that doesn’t have some kind of cover is drenched. Puddles in the gutter turn into streams that turn into colossal rivers, sprayed everywhere by the great, hulking yellow school buses, ships in this would-be waterworld.

He can see her, standing prettily under a yellow umbrella that casts a faint, heavenly glow on her skin.

I m a g i n a t i o n .

He knows that talking to her is absolutely out of the question. There is no way in hell. Pathological shyness and the tendency to forget how to breathe in her presence are among the reasons. He can remember everything she’s ever said to him, and vice versa. Every now and again, it gets hard to recall the sound of her voice, and he puts it down to the memory wearing thin, because he replays it too much.

E v i s c e r a t i o n .

Everyone knows him as that annoying piece of bubblegum, forever stuck on the bottom of their shoes. Good only to sneer at, and as a sharpener for wits. He tried to give up caring about that, but that failed. Repeatedly. His place in the social hierarchy is somewhere below rock bottom, the patch of slimy sewer floor, underneath the bottom rung of the ladder.

The will to do anything about it was crushed out of him a long time ago.
Literally. Beating someone up time after time for no apparent good reason other than to see his face in the mud can do that to a person.

R e s i g n a t i o n .

He’s learnt, over time, that the harder you clutch at something, the more it’ll slip through your fingers. Like a handful of sand.
He’s resigned himself to the fact that despite everything, it’s impossible. The entire thing. He’s the scaly looking fish, and she’s the beautiful bird. It just doesn’t work.

M a c h i n a t i o n .

But his addiction goes deeper than that. He’s been her silent supporter since the first time he’d laid eyes on her. His world revolves around hers, even though she doesn’t know it. Like Neptune, or Pluto. He’s that little icy thing that’s too far away to bask in her ever-present glow, yet near enough to still be caught up in her gravitational field, forever spinning around her, a victim of gravity.

T r e p i d a t i o n .

She smiles, waves at him late one afternoon. He blanches, looking for a place to hide. His throat constricts, and he feels his heart suddenly become fragile. Perching beside him, she swings her feet, as the skies cloud over. He can bet that by the end of this conversation, if there is one, she’ll think he’s at least seven kinds of fool.

I n t e r p r e t a t i o n .

They sit, and to his ears, conversation flows like some sweet, heavenly music. In the space of five minutes, she’s said more to him than she has in her entire life, and he drinks it in. He impresses every moment on his mind, willing himself not to forget.

He puts it down to the fact that her bus is late, and she has no-one else to talk to. After all, he was never that special. To her, at any rate.

A m e l i o r a t i o n .

Days pass, and their conversations grow longer. Meaningful. The twenty minutes he spends waiting for the bus, suddenly become the highlights of his days. His weeks. His months.

She has the brightest smile he’s ever seen, and can laugh the most infectious laugh. He discovers that they share the same sense of humour, and the sounds of their combined laughter echo through the lonely afternoons.

Still, he idles away hours thinking disheartening thoughts. Still he circles around her, watching when he thinks no one is looking, jumping when she says his name. Even after the time they spend together, he still cannot imagine that she likes talking to him.

He’s flawed, that way.

C o n t e m p l a t i o n .

Slowly, ever so slowly, enchanting coincidences begin to stack up. They meet in hallways, spend lunch hours together. Furtive whispers travel up and down, speculating this, contemplating that.

He suddenly finds himself wondering about what they could be, rather than what they couldn’t. Whenever the subject is brought up, he changes it nervously, fearing what she might say.

Fearing even more what she might not.

R e s t o r a t i o n .

His world revolves around her ever the more, the purpose for his existence. She saves him special smiles. Smiles that he knows she gives to no one else. Ever, he waves back shyly, still not entirely sure of himself in her presence. Secret jokes, and knowing glances trade between them constantly, afternoons spent together suddenly become crucial to his existence.

Maybe hers too.

A b s o l u t i o n .

The skies voice their anger with an almighty crack. Raindrops like crocodile tears soak the parched earth, until it can drink no more. It overflows, coating everything in slippery coldness. He waits for her at the worn concrete staircase, standing on tip toe to see the yellow umbrella making its way through the crowd.

His heart leaps for the thousandth time at her smile, and he waves. Shyly, like always. Her foot slips on the first rain-slicked step, and reflexively, he puts out his arms to break her fall. She latches on to him instinctively.

And doesn’t let go.

G r a v i t a t i o n .

She whispers softly in his ear, and tells him that her world revolves around his, even though he doesn’t know it. Like Neptune, or Pluto. She’s that little icy thing that’s too far away to bask in his ever-present glow, yet near enough to still be caught up in his gravitational field, forever spinning around him, a victim of gravity.

Because after all,

‘Gravity Cannot be held Responsible For people falling in Love.’

-fin.