I met you on a Sunday. It was early in the morning, before the sun began to peek over the ugly buildings of the town that we both hated. I was walking home after a sickening night out with a guy whose name I had already forgotten. You said you were walking to your job at the drug store. But you were going in the wrong direction, and you looked like you had been crying.

It started to rain in the few minutes before our eyes met. You were standing under a bus stops pavilion when I saw you. I joined you under the shelter and you pulled your hood off your head to flash a fake smile at me.

You told me your name meant happy and the irony of that was painful. I told you mine meant unfortunate. The pain in my eyes, and the sickness in my voice were obvious as I told you this truth. You didn’t ask me if I was okay and I liked that. Your eyes offered no pity or lust. Just the tired blood shot look that I probably mirrored.

We talked for a few minutes until you decided you were late. You walked out into the rain and disappeared into the fog, leaving me alone under the bus sign. I stared at a spot on the ground where continuous drops of water fell from the glass roof over my head.

I was about to stand up and continue my walk home when I felt the bench move beneath me. I looked up to see you sitting there with the same swollen blood shot eyes and soaking wet hair that dripped into your lap.

We sat there until the rain stopped and the sun shone over our heads. You looked me in the eyes and told me not to be afraid as you leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. And I wasn’t. Even after the distasteful night that I shared with a stranger the night before; even after spending my whole life being told by men that I’m not worth ****,
I wasn’t afraid.