oo1. jan.

They meet in the midst of a cold winter, when the air is thick with falling snowflakes, the neighborhood children's laughter, and an icy chill easily diminished by a cup of hot tea.

They meet by pure chance, by coincidence, but there are some who would call such a thing "destiny," and it is your choice if you believe it to be.

She is dressed in faded-wash jeans and a warm, scarlet coat, the pink of her cherry blossom tresses hidden beneath a woolen beret that kisses the tops of her ears. As she passes by a man in a dark gray sweater, she misses the opportunity to catch a glimpse of his face since it is mostly covered by a thick, navy scarf, but she thinks nothing of it and meanders past without looking back at him.

Her knee-high boots leave imprints against the snow while she walks, and after a half dozen or so steps, she peers over her shoulder to admire her paint strokes against the beautiful white canvas, and that is when she realizes that the stoic male with the blue scarf draped around his neck is still there, leaning against the tall lamppost at the corner of the street.

He is not watching her, and in fact, his attention seems to be focused on somewhere far away, in another world perhaps, but he senses her gazing at him, and they lock eyes for a second that seems to last an eternity.

The girl's already rosy cheeks redden, and she turns away, discretely slipping her hands into the jacket's shallow pockets. She takes a few more steps but falters, suddenly feeling awkward as his stare climbs the ladder of her spine.

Although somewhere in the back of her mind, there is a small piece that wants to experience his ebony irises—their color is so vividly black, and she can tell, even from such a distance away—just one more time, she does not turn around.

Instead, she quickly moves forward like a leaf in the wind, except much, much less gracefully, and when her feet tangle together, she trips over her boots and falls into a considerable amount of snow. Her face tingles, her body numbs, and her cheeks warm once again.

After several moments of self-pitying, she shifts her position so that she lies on her back and looks up to see dark hair that falls asymmetrically, eyebrows knit together in skepticism, rosy cheeks identical to her own. A syllable that sounds rather like "tch" escapes the male's mouth, but he still leans down towards her, frays of his scarf tickling her nose as he does.

"You're a graceful one, aren't you?"

Then he takes hold of her hand, and a small, timid smile blossoms on her lips at the gesture because it feels like a greeting, like the beginning of something new, and she can't help but hope that it is.