Best friend

Chapter 1: Rains

She said they were tears of the sky.

'There have been a lot of rains lately.'

It always felt like an invisible hand grasping my heart, watching something so reminiscent of a happy memory, yet also serving as a constant reminder that you likely had lost the chance to experience it forever.

Emma used to really love rains like this – a heavy Summer rain that came and went as it pleased, the kind of downpour that came unbiddenly during a scorchingly sunny day and turned everything into misshapen grey silhouettes on a background curtain of gathered cloud. There would always be a certain musky smell, one that was neither pungent nor pleasant, emanating from the dry asphalt roads and concrete sidewalks that pricked at your nose. The rain would leave as abruptly as it came; lingering in its wake a refreshing feeling. The air was a little bit cleaner, and your body would feel like it had become lighter as well. It was as if someone had opened a shower at full blast to wash away all the dirt and grime of the city and the people within.

At least it was how she would describe it.

Funny thing, really. I had caught myself emulating Emma a lot these days. Having thoughts that she would have. Doing things that she would do. Maybe it was my way of coping – fooling myself into believing, that everything was okay, that we were still together like before, watching the Summer rains.

It was one of her hobbies that I often got roped into – just sitting down and watching the countless drops of water falling onto the ground. On the landing of her door. Under the canopy of a closed convenience store. Behind the glass wall of our favorite ice cream parlor. We would sit side by side, and she would watch as thousands of white bubbles formed and popped on the ground with a content smile. I would run my machine gun mouth about nonsensical things. About my latest wiki walk. About the latest rumors and conspiracy that the PHO netizens had cooked up. About how that C-rating villain could potentially take over Boston through the power of munchkinry. And Emma would patiently listen to my ramblings without a word of complaint, resting her head against mine and tracing circles on the fabric of her skirt. Sometimes Emma would hang her bare hands and feet out and let the droplets fall onto her skin, pooling in her palm and flowing in between her fingers like small waterfalls, paying no attention to the occasional winds that splashed ice-cold water over her hair and face.

It could have been the two of us now, sitting under the bus stop and watching the rain, together in our little world. I never really shared Emma's love for the weather, at least back then. My hair often got all frizzy when it rained, and since dad worked pretty late every day, raining meant holing up in my room browsing PHO with our crappy dial-up connection. The local library would offer miles better internet service for free, and if there was ever a time where there was nothing of interest online I could always enjoy myself in the Earth-Aleph import section. To think that my greatest question in life at that time was how Armsmaster could stack up against that Stark guy. It all seemed so silly, so foolish now. I used to hate rains with a passion, but I loved seeing Emma as she watched the rain, so I guess it all balanced out.

The bus skidded to a stop, splashing water on the tip of my shoes. Bracing the thin curtain of rain, I threw my old backpack on my shoulder and climbed through the opened doors. I reached into the pocket of my coat and pulled out the bus pass, showing it to the bald man in a blue uniform, and walked my way to the back of the vehicle. It was a petty habit of mine – sitting in the very back seats where you were less likely to be asked (or ordered) to give your seat to the elderly. I rested my head against the glass window, feeling the vibration of the bus engine and the drumming sound of a thousand raindrops against the other side of the panel. The vehicle must be pretty old since some water did leak through and collected in the sliding track at the bottom of the window.