Water drops raced each other down the window of the school library, like children racing to an ice cream truck at the park. I used to love the rain. The sound, the steady pitter-patter on the roof, the smell. The way it felt like the world stood still, a quiet and peaceful haven. But not anymore. The rain just reminded me of every bad thing from the past two months.
I took out a slip of paper and my favorite black pen. It had been an overwhelming two months since Dad died. I started writing.

Dear Mom,
I’m so sorry. Dad dying was the last straw. Please try to forget me, I never meant to hurt y-

I shook the pen, trying to fix it. Unscrewing the pen revealed it ran out of ink. I sighed, setting it down. I guess good things always come to an end.
My family and life had been everything I could ask for until Dad died in a car accident in the rain. Mom began changing. Our relationship had always been rocky before, but Dad’s death was the turning point. Mom began to yell at me, never listened to my reasoning, and punished me for every minor mistake. Being at home around her felt like walking on eggshells.
With no support and no friends, everything felt pointless.
From my seat in the library, I could see the door. Some people entered, seeking shelter from the rain, running in quickly while attempting to be quiet. Some left, laughing and chatting with classmates. No one laughed or chatted with me. I never felt more alone.
Maybe it was better that way.
A girl walked in, her long, straight, chocolate brown hair tied in a ponytail. I looked down, paying her no attention. Completely unexpectedly, she approached me, sitting in the empty seat beside mine. I avoided eye contact, instead staring at the half-written note and the dead pen. How much worse could this day get?
The girl coughed. My eyes remained fixed on the paper’s blank space. She coughed twice. Three times.
“Do you want something?” I glared, my tone sharp. Perhaps sharper than I intended. Not that it mattered.
The glare didn’t deter her. She scooted her chair closer, leaning towards me. “Is that a new pen?”
“No, it’s pretty old. It turns into a sword, so be careful.” I considered throwing the pen at her arm for dramatic effect, but decided against it. It’s not like we were friends. In fact, I didn’t know why I kept engaging in this conversation.
She smiled and leaned closer, chestnut eyes sparkling. “Wait, really?”
I rolled my eyes. Was this girl serious? She clearly couldn’t tell I had no interest in messing around. “Of course not. Are you ”
“Oh. Sorry,” she mumbled, leaning back.
“Anyway, I’m clearly usually this friendly and positive. That’s why I have so many friends sitting with me.” I gestured to the many empty chairs, giving her a fake smile, hoping she would take the hint and leave me alone.
Surprisingly, instead of leaving, ignoring me like everyone else, she laughed. “You’re so funny!” My smile briefly turned genuine, then faded. Why would she say that? More importantly, why was I almost feeling a connection to this random girl I happened to meet at the end of my life?
I looked down again. No, this can’t be happening. I don’t want to hurt more people. “I’m not that funny. Do you mind being quiet for a little?”
“Sorry.” She picked up my dead pen, twirling it around her fingers, failing miserably. She tried spinning it the same way I usually did. Perhaps a coincidence? It had to be, no one pays enough attention to me to notice those things. The constant sound of the pen falling on the table bothered me.
“Will you stop that? I can’t think properly,” I snapped, glaring again. Recently, even the smallest things, like someone clicking a pen or turning a page too loudly, have been enough to set me off. Everything irritated me, bothered me. I felt like a stretched out rubber band, ready to snap.
She quietly put the pen down, opting for a spare hair tie to keep her hands busy. However, the peace only lasted momentarily. After a few seconds, she accidentally launched the hair tie flying towards my face.
I closed my eyes for a moment, sighing. “I’ll be back. I have to use the bathroom.” I stood up, shoving the chair away. Picking up my bag, I stalked off, away from the girl, away from the library.
The rain finally stopped, the sun peeking out through the clouds, the first glimmer of light in weeks of gloom, a beaming beacon of hope in many days of darkness and despair. As I walked towards the bathroom, I suddenly remembered my note. Shoot, I must’ve left it on the table. With the girl. I sprinted back towards the library, hoping the worst didn’t happen.
When I returned, the girl was still sitting at the table from earlier, my half-finished note in hand. I started walking over, ready to rip it out of her hand, but stopping when I noticed her expression. I ducked behind a bookshelf, hoping she didn’t see me. She seemed lost, cheerful demeanor and bright smile from earlier missing, replaced by a blank, unreadable expression. I wondered what she was thinking. I wondered what other parts of her I’ve never seen.
After a few minutes, I peeked around the bookshelf, eyeing the table again. The girl was gone, but the paper was still there. I rushed to the table, ready to snatch up my note before anyone else saw it. But I stopped right next to it, hand frozen above the pen and paper.
Someone had written on my note. A phone number, hastily scribbled under my writing. Signed with the initials R.S.T. Not only that, but a brand new black pen laid in place of my old, dead pen.