It was going to rain, and there was nothing I could do about it. To be sure, I opened the window and stuck my head out and breathed in. The air was humid and dank, the sky dark gray, bugs swooping near the earth. It was going to rain.
It no longer became a matter of whether it was going to rain, but when it would start pouring. I rushed to grab my things before taking off into the too-warm air.
There were barely any people out—they all felt the mugginess and oppression I felt. There seemed to be no escape from the oncoming storm or the feeling that stuck like a second skin, a snake waiting to shed and renew.
It was with these thoughts that I made my way across the school’s paths and towards home. With my sheet music in hand, I rushed across the cement paths, eager to reach my destination. Somewhere inside of me, I believed that at the destination, there would be no more humidity. Unfortunately, I was wrong.
The rain started only moments after I fiddled with finding my keys in my pockets. I made it inside with only a few drops on me, but more importantly and more unfortunately, a few drops of water marring the music.
There was something to be said about the damaged messenger of music, the sheets that had a few ruined notes, and in turn, a ruined song. After all, I was a romantic, and romantic did as romantic believed in order to try and be a little less lonely.