Beautiful Stranger

Beautiful Stranger

Written by Neenee Hu

She sat on the floor of my bedroom, hair tied messily into a velvet elastic. Clothes, newly folded and ironed, lay strewn around her, slowly being packed into a suitcase. Her back was turned to me, but I already knew she was crying.

One of her hands reached up to wipe at her face, proving my point. She'd been sobbing since I told her the news.

"Arty," I mumbled. "We'll be fine. Marilyn's already waiting for us."

She sniffles and hides it under her hand. "I know, Sam," she whispers back. "I- I don't know. I guess I'm too emotional."

She dabs at her eyes again and stands. "Lin says she'll miss us."

I nod, rising from the edge of her impatiently made bed to sit by her side. Her face is streaked with tears, her cheeks red, and her eyes puffy.

"Hey," I murmur, resting a hand on her shoulder. "We're gonna be okay."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, exhaling shakily.

"Samuel," she mumbles, too quick for someone like her. "I don't want to leave."

I wrap my arms around her shoulders, resting my chin on that mess of licorice curls.

"I know, Arty."

She sniffles again, more tears beading in the crinkles of those big eyes. I instinctively reach up to wipe them away with my thumb.

"Do you need help packing?"

She shakes her head, her breath ragged and soft. "No, I'm fine."

I have a strange gnawing sensation to stay, to help her pack and be the good brother I should be. But I know that is not what she wants, so I stand, giving her a soft hug before I rise.

When the door clicks shut for her bedroom, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I can't believe this isn't our house anymore. Her room will one day be the room for another child, adult, pet, or teenager. My room will be the room for one of the same, or even empty, catching dust.

My luggage lays half-packed in my doorway, a singular shirt spilled out over the zipper. I walk towards it, gently tucking the sleeve back inside the bag, and pull the zipper shut. Her eyes slowly peek out of the crack in her bedroom door, gray irises staring at me. She’s fully dressed now, in a white tank top with little flower designs and jean shorts that reach mid-thigh.

She points at her luggage, packed neatly. Her entire life is stuffed into that bag– her wishes, her dreams, and her memories among clothes and lotions and all those little keychains Marilyn would mail.

“I’m done packing.” she mumbles. “Are we leaving now?”

I turn to her, smiling softly at her wary figure, looking up at me. “Yeah,” I mutter back. “We’re going.”

I took her hand in mine, using the free one to take my rucksack over my shoulder and fish the subway tickets from the front pocket.

She smiles shakily up at me, a casket of her old, bright grin. I force the smile back as she reaches out to twist the doorknob, letting the cold outside air linger in the memories of our house.

The night blurred in a vision of car rides and chatter, the city lights shining above us and Taylor Swift blasting softly through the radio, our bags bouncing in the backseat.

Her hand remains a grounding lifeline for me during it all, though she is my younger sister and I should be the one helping her. But I’m not complaining– without her, I would’ve keeled over and fell onto my face.

The subway doors opened, showing strangers buried in newspapers or conversation or just sat in silence.

Arty tugs on my wrist, pulling me into the tube with a soft laugh. “Cmon,” she mutters. “We’re doing this.”

I stand, frozen, beside her side as the tube doors slide closed, and her hand finally relaxes in mine.

I slowly let go of her hand, turning to look at my surroundings.

A young man stands in the corner, headphones clamped over curly hair as he watches his phone. Two toddlers cling to the hem of their mother’s dress, rocking slightly as the subway begins to move. A elderly male sits in the accessible seat, clutching his book as he reads over golden glasses frames.

Through the crowd, though, only one person catches my eye.

A young lady– dressed in a chestnut colored trenchcoat over a plaid skirt and cream blouse. Her hair, dark and curly, is shoved into earmuffs and spills over petite shoulders. Her lips are positioned in a soft frown, her long, slender fingers wrapped around a newspaper.

She’s beautiful.

I glance over at her, trying not to seem rude as Arty plops herself down in the seat beside me.

She looks up, eyes finding my stiff figure. I freeze, hands going white-knuckled as I clench them. Her eyes are big and gray, so similar yet so different to my sister’s.

As I stand, stiff, arms tight at my side, the corners of her mouth slowly twitch upwards. Oh my gods. She’s not just beautiful. She’s alluring.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My throat seems glued shut, my pulse racing and face slowly growing hot.

She turns back to her newspaper, her smile still gently pasted on her features. My eyes roam over her face, inspecting it as if it’ll disappear once I look away.

Big gray eyes. Short lashes that flow and curl when she blinks. The slightest bit of acne on her cheeks, sprinkled over amber skin. Lips that remind me of clover. Dimples I could stick pencils in.

My heart drops. I want to reach out and brush my hands against her face, as if to test if it is real.

I hear the doors slide open suddenly, just as I am about to ask for her name.

As Arty tugs on my sleeve, a small pout pasted on her face, my heart swims with regret.

My beautiful stranger shall have to remain a stranger until I see her again.