Softly Strumming His Guitar

5.4.08 - [11.24.08]

---

And there he sat, softly strumming his guitar; oblivious to the world – his audience.

He wasn’t my best friend, but we’d talked once or twice. I didn’t know much about him, but then again, I didn’t think anyone did. I knew enough about him to be completely enraptured by his song. He was one of those boys who didn’t quite show his emotions… or at least, not on the outside. In his song his emotions showed true – but only in his song; he’d never show them to anyone else.

That’s what I loved about him.

I didn’t think he’d ever notice me, though. He lived in his music too much, so I knew better than to keep my hopes up. In spite of that, though, I couldn’t help the shivers down my spine when I heard his song.

He went to the park every Saturday and played. He wrote and played, and didn’t care who saw. Those who were regulars at the park, like me, learned to ignore him as he didn’t pay attention to anything but his guitar. You could find him, any Saturday, sitting on his bench under the big willow tree, intoxicated by his song. He was amazing in every sense of the word.

I shrugged and walked on. It was going to rain soon, and my mother would be getting worried, as she always did when I stayed out to long, especially in the rain. I slowed my step a bit though; I could enjoy the rain for a while before going home. I turned back once and caught one final glance at him, working out new chords and writing them down in his notebook that he took everywhere, smiling.

I hummed softly as I turned back, one of his melodies, dreaming up a story behind it as the first drop fell from the sky.

---

“Hey, you like to sing, right?” Wait… he was talking to me?

“Yeah… Why?” I was a bit dazed.

“Just wondering,” he turned and walked away.

“Wait! Why?” but he didn’t turn back.

---

Rain; it’s so beautiful. I remember the day I met him, on a day like this. It was raining, and it was too beautiful to go home yet.

I looked to the sky as I walked through the deserted park – well, almost deserted. There he sat, softly strumming his guitar. I heard him before I saw him, but when I heard, I looked around until I found him, twenty feet in front of me. He saw me too, and smiled.

“It’s raining… why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be inside?” That was him.

“Yeah, I guess. But it’s too beautiful to go inside. Why waste the rain? Why waste the day?” And I sat down next to him on the park bench.

“I’ve seen you here before…” he said, dropping his arm over his guitar.

“I’ve seen you here before too… a lot, actually.”

“I come here every Saturday to write… to play.”

And there was a silence… but not an awkward one, just a silence. Listening to the rain, and comfortable with each other’s presence.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I grinned. “That’s not important. I’m me. That’s all that matters.
And he smiled back, “Yeah, I guess that’s all that matters.”

And that was the first time I’d noticed him. Actually noticed him. And since then, I’ve found myself falling more and more in love with his song.

---

It was raining again; I loved it when it rained. And, like the day we met, I decided to push my mother’s judgment aside in favor of it. And, like the day we met, he was there, softly strumming his guitar while the park slowly emptied. I smiled at him as I walked by slowly, and he nodded serenely back. I hadn’t gotten more than five steps past him when he called out softly: “Wait!”

I turned around to face him.

“I wrote a song.”

“You write lots of song, don’t you?” the smile apparent in my voice.

“Yeah, but this one needs a voice. It needs your voice to take flight.”

“And you want… me?”

“Would you sing it for me?” Hope glinted in his eyes.

And I sat next to him. He passed me his notebook, already warped from the rain, opened to in the middle, and I read. I read the words of his song – his soul – and smiled. It was about me – the girl he’d met in the park – the girl whose name was not important, just that she was her. And that he loved her. Since the moment he first saw her, dancing her way through the rain, he loved her.

“What’s your name?” he asked again. Interrupting me from my reverie.

“I told you,” I smiled again, very widely, “My name’s not important.”

And he kissed me. He leaned over his guitar – his life – and he kissed me, placing one hand on the side of my face. Surprised, I didn’t quite know what to do, but I kissed back. He pulled away after a moment, smiling. Then, he started softly strumming his guitar.

---

A/N: So... fourth draft. Yeah. And it hasn't really changed much, except for a whole big chunk got taken out... but that's not really important. I saved the guitar! Hope you enjoyed it! :)