A story like this writes itself.

Can’t you picture it perfectly?

Does your imagination not fail you as you see them, soaked through and without a care, hand in hand, almost as if they are right in front of you. They are almost real.

The beginning might be a bit rocky, but the ending is definitely happy.

And they have such bright smiles it makes your heart ache.

A story like this writes itself.

I don’t have to know how to spin the words or tell the tale. The tapestry of fantasy and love and storms can be woven by just about any mind.

There is the tell tale pitter patter of rain of the sidewalk like the pitter patter of their hearts beating in time. Isn’t that romantic?

Does he give her his jacket? Does she offer her umbrella? Or do neither of them try and stay dry?

You probably saw two young souls, whether literally or at heart only. At least one of them is more free than the average person.

A story like this writes itself.

It’s… so simple. Not in a bad way. It is simple things that bring us joy, anyways. But it has no crisscrossing, overwhelming plot twists. It’s simple. And happy.

She laughs loudly as he spins her in circles, and she kicks off her sandles so her bare feet may splash in the puddles directly. It is muddier that they are expecting, but their plans cannot be foiled. His hair sticks to his neck in little curls, and hers keeps wrapping itself around her face as she twirls. He keeps brushing it out of her eyes. One of them mentions how if they had only remembered their umbrella, no such fun would have been had. She kisses him on the nose.

An old, creaky woman and her old creaky husband hold each other close. She rests her head against his chest because she is too short to reach his shoulder. They sway slowly back and forth, like a slow dance to a slow song. Their neighbours radio is playing a song from a rock band neither of them knows in the background, half drowned out by the rain. His glasses are so spattered he can barely see. One of them says how they could die this way. The other said they might just.

She holds out to him a single, drooping daisy. It was much taller before, but now it sags in the weight of the water. She is so nervous. For a moment she thinks he won’t take it. Then tentatively, he reaches out and plucks it from her fingers, placing it gently on his ear, tucking the stem under his cap. His smile still has a tooth gap where one of his front teeth should be. They skip home together down the side walk, swinging hand in hand.

And you can still hear it in the background. The pitter patter of the rain.