I dig my fingers into the wet grass, clutching it like it might keep me grounded as I force down the pathetic sob clawing its way up my throat. It is July, and the rain pours without mercy, soaking me from head to toe. At least that means no one can tell which drops on my face are rain and which are tears.

Today is my birthday.
July 23rd, 2012. I turned twelve today.

It is also the day my friends, if I can even call them that anymore, decided I was disposable. They never showed up to the meetup we planned. Instead, a waitress approached my table, her smile awkward as she handed me a folded piece of paper. Inside were just four words, written without hesitation : “We hate you, Layla.”

It shouldn’t hurt. I keep telling myself that. It really shouldn’t…but it does.

I drag the sleeve of my jacket across my cheeks, wiping away tears that refuse to stop. I pull my knees to my chest and stare out at the empty school grounds. The seventh grade term has not started yet, which means the place is deserted, except for the rain hammering against the earth.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want Mom or Dad asking what was wrong, their faces filling with worry, when I am supposed to spend this day in happiness. I didn’t want Mom blaming herself because Tisha decided to hate me for something Mom could never control. Her job. 

The sky grows darker by the minute, thick clouds swallowing what little light remains. The rain shows no sign of stopping, but staying here feels easier than facing the truth. That no matter what I do, I will always be reduced to my parents’ names and decisions.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my shoulders trembling. Then the rain around me softens. A shadow falls across my knees. I open my eyes and look up.

Mikhael stands in front of me, holding an umbrella above my head. Water slides down its edges as he shifts slightly, making sure I am fully covered. His hair is damp, his clothes clinging to him, but his eyes are fixed on me with concern.

Last year, I decided to try being friends with him. We were getting there, step by step, but every time we talked, the others would butt in. Their laughter was loud, their questions intrusive, and Mikhael always stiffened around them. His shoulders would tense, his answers turning short and polite. I noticed how uncomfortable he was, even if he never said it out loud. So I stopped pushing.

Instead, I did small things. I kept bandages in my bag and passed them to him whenever I noticed a new cut or bruise. I never asked where they came from. He never explained. When the classroom was quiet and I was alone at my desk, he would sometimes approach me with a notebook in his hands. We would sit together and solve questions in hushed voices.

This past year felt different from everything I had known before. My friends were not bad people, not really, but I always knew the truth. We were friends because our parents were friends. Because it was convenient. Because it was expected. With Mikhael, there was no connection like that. He had nothing to gain from knowing me and somehow, that made everything feel real.

He often asked me to come watch his swim practices or matches. Each time, I made up an excuse. I knew my friends wouldn’t like it, and I didn’t want to deal with their looks or questions. Still, a part of me always felt guilty when I said no.

Now, with him standing in front of me like this, I don’t want him to see me broken. I have always been the mature one. What would he think if he saw me crying like this?

“M-Mikhael…” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw from sobbing. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds out the umbrella and places it in my hands.

“Mikhael?” I try again, my brows knitting together.

He lowers himself onto the wet ground in front of me, not bothering to sit under the umbrella. He just sits there, as if the cold doesn’t bother him at all.

So we sit like that. We don’t talk. The rain fills the silence. I watch water slide down his face, and he watches me with warm eyes that don’t judge or pity. His presence is grounding, even as the storm rages around us.

I don’t know how long it lasts. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Eventually, we stand and part ways without saying much. As I turn to leave, he glances back once, pointing his chin toward the natatorium. A small smile tugs at his lips before he breaks into a run, splashing through puddles as he disappears into the rain on his way home.

I tighten my grip around the umbrella handle and stare after him. Was that an invitation to his swim practice?

The next day, I am not sure what pulls me here. The natatorium is supposed to be closed during the break. Everyone is meant to be home with their families, sleeping in or traveling. Still, the front door is unlocked, resting open like it has been waiting all morning.

I push it wider and step inside. The smell of chlorine hits me first, but it feels good. The place echoes except for the splash of water cutting through the silence. I peer over the pool. Mikhael is there.

He is swimming laps, tearing through the water as if it belongs to him. His arms move with purpose. His legs kick hard. He doesn’t look up when my shoes scuff against the tile. He doesn’t notice me at all.

I walk toward the bleachers and sit on the lowest bench, folding my hands in my lap. The cold seeps through my skirt, but my eyes are on him. I watch him turn at the wall, push off, and disappear beneath the surface before rising again.

Mom asked where I was going this morning. I told her I was going to watch a swim practice. Dad nearly dropped his coffee in excitement. I think they were both shocked. I am not a sports person. I would rather read in my room but I knew I needed to come today.

There is no crowd. No shouting. No whistles. Just water and movement. Whatever pain was sitting in my chest yesterday feels smaller here, like it is dissolving with every lap he swims. The sound of the water pulls me into a calm I didn’t know I needed. I don’t feel like jumping in. I just want to stay and watch.

Mikhael looks different here. In class, he is small in the way he moves, always shrinking into himself. Here, he is…himself. Free. Even the way he moves against the water feels alive, like it belongs instead of suffocating him.

An hour passes. Then another. I stayed with him like he stayed with me yesterday.  Eventually, he climbs out of the pool, water streaming down his arms and dripping onto the tiles. I stand without thinking and walk closer to him. My shadow overlapping his. I hold out the umbrella he gave me when he had no reason to.

“I’m Mikhael Lee,” He introduces himself as he takes the umbrella and holds out his left hand.

I look at his hand, then back at his face, confused. I already know his name, so why is he introducing himself like this? For the first time, a conversation stalls in my head. I am usually good at this. I know what to say, how to sound right, how to make people comfortable…but with him, I don’t know what he wants from me. So I say the first thing that slips out.

“I know?”

His face lights up, like I have given the correct answer to a question I didn’t understand. He steps a little closer, his hand still stretched out, waiting. After a second, I take it. His palm is warm, despite the coldness wrapped around him. He leans in just enough to lower his voice.

“Introduce yourself.”

I must look completely lost, because he mouths his words next: “Just do it.”

So I do.

“I am Layla Matthews.”

“I know!” he says cheerfully, like it is the best thing he has heard all day.

A feeling settles in my chest. This is the start of something good. With him.