It’s not the same. To compare, this would be the ghost of what was. We hold onto the past in this desperate hope that something will culminate from the abandons from within ourselves, despite the tide of realization that crashes in the corners of our minds. It is constant—reminding us of how this is going to end, not with a bang but quietly like nature, and will start again when the late summer rain falls again.
It was during that late summer rain when it started, and with the last of the summer rain it should end. The cycle will be never-ending, beautiful while it is, and tragic when it ends.
For, when it started, there was rain was pouring incessantly outside. She already an inkling of feeling towards him, but it completely friendly. She was everywhere at once: a brewing thunderstorm compared to the steady rain outside. She had to make sure everything was running smoothly, for she was the responsible one. The mature one. And how she hated it. But someone had to do the boring work. They all believed everything would sort itself out and not to worry. The only reason they didn’t worry was because they knew she would do everything that they didn’t. She hated it.
Surely enough, as the tradition every year, a shaving cream fight ensued. She was tagged first by a friend who should have been making sure everything was going smoothly. She walked outside to make sure no one was hurt in the initial fight before getting tagged a second time, this time on the right side of the face, by a former-friend-turned-foe. With a deadly silence accompanying a thunderstorm right before the first strike, she picked up the shaving cream can and sprayed a good deal onto her palm. Then her hand wiped the whole mess into the foe’s hair. She could have sworn she heard a crack, not from nature, but from her personal thunderstorm.
From then on, she was tagged mercilessly until she escaped inside. She spotted him, glanced down at her shaving-cream-filled palm, and looked back up. With a deliberate sort of walk, she made her way over to him. Then she slathered the shaving cream on his arm. A wicked grin made its way onto her face as she high-fived his cheek with the rest of the shaving cream. The look of shock on his face—as if one of her thunderbolts struck him—made her start to giggle. Then he wiped the shaving cream off of his cheek before high-fiving her cheek with it.
Despite how completely cliché it was, she liked him. She couldn’t pinpoint the moment where she started to fall into what she called “crush mode.” But that was probably one of the moments where she realized she liked him.