It was Nothing, It was Everything

It was the kind of story that was forgettable. That was meaningless.

But it was also the kind of story that made him ache, that made him feel his own heart beat, that made him toss and turn in bed. He wouldn't forget, no matter how forgettable it seemed. To him, it was the kind of story that meant everything.

* * * *

It was drizzling, as was common in the summer. The air was humid and his hair clung to his forehead, damp.

The gardens weren't crowded, and the shrubs rose like statues on either side of him as he wandered past. It was a familiar path, into the hedge maze, but long. It was all worth it though, because he knew that on the other side was where the river flowed. Most visitors of these gardens stopped in the center of the maze, thinking that their journey ended there. And once they'd enjoyed sitting under the mongolia, they would stand and admire the pink flowers for just a moment longer, then turn back the way they came.

He knew better. His father had shown him the path. Past the blooming mongolia, left, straight, right, left, around the corner hidden in purple--the color of blazing stars--and down the footpath to the edge of the river. He picked a blazing star as he passed, rolling the petals between his fingers. His father taught him to identify ever flower and leaf, and to appreciate it all.

So he didn't mind the light rain. He let his tennis shoes get a little muddy and his shoulders get a little wet. The air was still warm, and the sweet scent of the flowers drifted and mingled with the tangy scent of the rain. He sat by the edge of the river, on the tree stump that had always been there, and closed his eyes.

By the time he stood and forced his mind back into the real world: must get to work, need to remember to buy bread, should finish painting the bathroom walls... He sighed and tried not to think about it, about the four walls of his small apartment or the lingering shame of spending so much time cooped up there, alone. Not that he minded much, but other people seemed to think he should. People weren't supposed to like being alone.

He rounded the corner by the blazing stars, distracted suddenly by a thought: did he forget to lock his bike? How would he get to work if someone stole his bike? His eyes stared blankly at the gravel path and his feet moved him through the maze by default, because they knew where he was going even if his mind did not.

But a sound brought him back to the gardens, to the maze. A sigh, a frustrated sigh. He looked up, a raindrop trickling down his forehead, and saw, just past the primroses, a figure. Her headscarf and shoulders were darkened with rainwater, meaning that she'd been outside for some time, like him. The rain was still too light for it to have soaked through her clothes too quickly. But no one much ever came out to the gardens, not in the early summer mornings like this.

And yet here she was.

She was stepping left decisively, before huffing and turning around, walking a few paces and around a bend--which he knew to be a dead end--before returning to the spot she'd been originally standing in. She wasn't facing him, but he could see from her profile that her mouth was downturned in an agitated, albeit stubborn, line.

He almost asked her if she was lost, but he didn't want to bother her, or surprise her. Personally, he never liked running into anyone else here at the gardens. It always seemed more pleasant when he was under the illusion that he was alone.

So he said nothing at all.

And that was his moment, his memory to hold forever. It was nothing, and it was so much. Because the rain had been warm and he probably looked like a wet dog, and she had been in need of directions and curious and beautiful. What were the chances that he'd been there in the same moment as her, and did they matter?

Some days, he wished that he'd said something. That she would have turned around and quipped something and made him laugh and feel a little sheepish. But in the end, he would help her out of the maze and maybe as they walked she feel comfortable enough to ask him what he'd been doing in the gardens. And he would show her the river, and she would say it was a beautiful spot. And she would visit again. And they would become friends.

Other days, it felt like the moment he had was enough. She was a human like anyone else, and she was the main character of her story. She didn't need him to be there, and so he hadn't been. But he'd gotten the briefest of glimpses in, and he liked to think about why she had been there, and who she was, and how long she wandered around until she found that magnolia tree.

Most days, he just hoped that she found it. Not just the magnolia tree, but the tree stump by the river. And the wild columbines and the sound of the water flowing over the rocks. He usually just hoped that she had been lost, but that it was ok, because she would have taken the turn at the blazing suns and she would have accidentally found that spot by the river all on her own.

The truth was, they didn't need each other. They didn't mean anything to each other. He liked to think that maybe they could have been friends and laughed together. Maybe she liked flowers or would have helped him paint his bathroom walls or he would buy her coffees sometimes in the mornings. And those thoughts lingered like an ever-present rainstorm on the edge of his mind. But for the most part, he liked being alone. He was living his lifetime, and every morning he went to the gardens and took a moment to sit beside the river. He counted the petals on the flowers and watched summer leaves grow onto the trees, and he did it all alone, and he did it all serenely.

And in the end, it was beautiful. It was nothing, it was everything, and it was beautiful.