our time now if you want it to be {mylee}

There is no storm on the horizon today.

And though the sun is not shining and the clouds seem to indeed be in mourning there is neither audible recognition of thunder nor visible flash of lightning, and with a hopeful mind and childish heart I sit quietly on the shoreline, watching the horizon with the hopes that the tide turns in my favor. There has been no sign of disturbance in the atmosphere for the previous weeks, and it’s left me pacing the house with nerves high, hands wringing when not tugging at the fabric of my shirt, and at today’s awakening to a darkened sky I had flung myself from the house, sprinting for the sand as if wasting even a second more would cause the clouds to dissipate from their place of vision.

I had been here for an hour at least, the horizon trained in my field of vision as if taking my eyes from it for more than a moment or two would cause it to disappear completely, and with each passing breeze that rips through my hair the temptation to turn reappears, but each and every time it is pushed to the back of my mind, and by the time another half hour has passed the I’m able to disregard the inhibition completely.

And when he sits beside me I take no notice, do not turn my head or pay him notice simply due to the pace I’ve set for my own mind: to ignore the common distractions and give no attention to the common happenstances. But then he speaks—“Hey.”— and the normality of the situation fades to black, for this is no stranger in a familiar environment but rather something different in its entirety, for upon his tone sits a reminder reminiscent, and it takes nothing more than the trigger of his voice to send my mind into a recollection of our previous encounter, of that afternoon on a shoreline that was more turbulent than the combination of both of our minds, and though the sun was not shining then and it still is lacking now, the air that surrounds the sequence of events is so starkly different from that before that I fail to find the words to speak, for Seren Warfield was supposed to be nothing more than a stranger who took a moment too long to immerse himself in a world I expected him to turn away with disgust.

I was supposed to be nothing more than Tempi, lost and troubled Tempi who planned for nothing more but the next storm.

But we were nothing less than our highest hopes and aspirations, and while I knew mine his were still a mystery like the date of the next rolling tide, and though he says nothing more he leaves a million questions on my mind.

There’s no use in asking them, for he wouldn’t have the answers.

And neither would I.

Instead I simply watch for a moment more, keeping my gaze trained with his as I search for differences that might have etched themselves upon his face—sunken eyes, a deeper crease of the brow or something of the sort—but I can find nothing at all, and maybe it’s partially due to my oblivion of the human nature or the true lack of presence, but I will never know, for I turn my sight back the waves rolling in, counting each in succession as the break along the shoreline.

If there was a storm to be had, it would have made itself known, and I could sense one neither in the passing waves nor in the heart of Seren Warfield.

But hearts were not defined by the nature of their beats, only that they were doing just that, no matter in what time.

If my heart was pounding now, I would not know.

Instead I point at one—two, three different clouds, attempting to point out their unique nature, as if asking a question I could not formulate. He may have spoken only a word, but he had simply remembered, and that in itself was a feat for a mind similar to my own (if I dared make that comparison).

“Do you think there’s a storm on the horizon, Seren?”

I had an answer of my own in mind, but I dared not speak it aloud, if simply for the fear of being incorrect, instead depending on an outside opinion to formulate my own around, for there was comfort in the presence of another and though I had always contested against this—I had been happier alone—I could not say the same now, for he was calm in the midst of the raging storm with only a single word and it drove something deep within my mind and for a moment I marked it anger.

But it was not anger, and it never was.

It was fear of something unknown.

And it’s then that I realize my hand still lingers, fingertips pointed at the sky, and as they shake in the slightest I let them fall, resting again in the sand as I refuse to let my gaze meet his, for there may not be a storm on the horizon, but there’s one of a similar brewing in my mind, and if word stood true, anxiety incited more damage than rage, for though rage was destructive in its short-lived bursts anxiety was a timeline drawn out, stretching over a expanse of time that could last anywhere between the lengths of a tornado or a hurricane.

I could only pray it was the former.