Page 13 of When Hearts Collide

The rain is falling down so hard, it almost appears invisible unless you’re looking at the light from the streetlamps. The university must have turned them on early because of the dark skies. The thick thunderclouds, gray and heavy, sink low in the sky, smothering everyone underneath its wrath.

And a man. A lonely silhouette of a man. Tall. Defiant. Unrelenting.

Professor Anderson stands in the middle of the gravel path a few feet away from the windows, his body seemingly frozen.

I place my hand on the glass pane, my breath fogging up the surface as I stare at him.

He slowly tilts his head up toward the sky, letting the rain wash over him, like it’s cleansing him. His eyes are shut, his lips tilting up in something resembling a smile.

A heartbreaking smile.

My chest spasms in pain, my muscles coiling in tension, and every atom of my body pulls me toward this man, who looks so hauntingly alone while he stands out there in the pouring rain. He looks cold, like he hasn’t felt warmth in ages.

Nonsensical. Madness.

After a moment, he shakes his head as if mad at himself, and clenches his fists.

Then, for some unknown reason, he suddenly straightens up, his posture defiant once more, and he slowly turns around.

Our eyes meet in the distance, through thick glass and drowning rain, and I let out a shaky exhale. I want to withdraw, to step away from the window, but I can’t seem to make myself move.

I’m held immobile by the intensity in those dark eyes.

Lightning streaks across the sky, followed by a loud rumble of thunder, the flash of electricity illuminating every masculine angle of his face, how the rain has rendered his hair into dishevelment, the raindrops clinging to his skin like a lover’s caress, soaking through his shirt and suit, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

The muscles in his jaw twitch and he takes a few steps forward, as if compelled to do so. I press my palms harder against the glass, my body wanting something I can’t name. My heart kicks against my rib cage, wanting to escape, to hurl itself toward the man below.

Logic ceases to matter. Inexplicable insanity.

Our connected gaze is a sizzling live wire and neither of us can look away. I wonder if I’m seeing a side of him he doesn’t show anyone else, and I have no idea what I did to deserve this intimacy, this honor.

After a few seconds, he jolts, like he has been dragged out of a trance. His nostrils flare and those beautiful gray eyes take on a harsh glint before he tears his gaze away from me. He turns around, his hands fisted tightly by his sides, and promptly strides away, carrying with him more tension and charged intensity than the storm raging around him.

I watch him until he becomes a tiny dot in the distance, my fingers clutching my chest.

Later that night, I sit at my desk in the bedroom and take out a piece of stationery from the drawer. Floral stationery, in honor of Mom’s green thumb. I scribble another letter to her.

Dear Mom,

The skies are crying today and perhaps because I’m near you again, I feel its tears most intently. I don’t think there’s a timeline for grief or a way to fill the hole in my chest.

Seeing how Dad still misses you so much, even after all these years, should warn me away from love. But my heart is conflicted because I still want what you and Dad had. Star-crossed lovers who went against the world and married each other, in love until the very end…and even beyond.

Do you know I’ve never seen Dad go on a date after you? We still celebrate your birthday and I still make hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, the way you used to make them for me. I remember how you described your romance with Dad. You called it a whirlwind. I didn’t understand it back then. I just remembered thinking this was a funny word, like the wind was dancing, twirling, and whirling.

But now…I want to experience it. The whirlwind.

I miss you.

Love, Millie

As I set my pen down, a startling image forms in my mind. A lonely man standing alone in the rain, a soul feeling colder than the wind, more broken than the fallen branches from the storm. A gaze so electrifying it’s like two kindred souls are set alight because of each other for the first time.

Professor Ryland Anderson.

Chapter 6

The heaviness constantly living in my chest slightly lessens as I walk across Hannigan lawn before the next class, careful to avoid the fresh puddles accumulated overnight from the rain. Buildings and schools in LA are not designed with good drainage systems in the land of the drought.

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