The leaves were falling out of the tree, a dirty shade of orange, but bright nonetheless, leaving the treetops bare and bald. It was sad, and the branches trembled softly almost as if to mourn the loss of the most flamboyant part of their beauty. And she tried to count the swirling leaves and the invisible pattern they left in the air through the window pane, her nose pressed up against the cold glass. The wind was strong and it sent the flying leaves into a frenzy and the chaotic dance tugged the sides of her lips up into a smile.

And there and then, she saw him. A spot of grey emerging from the sea of orange, brown and yellow— a lanky boy in a hoodie, strolling towards her house from the end of the street. His hands were in his pockets and he was sauntering, but there was a lonely way in which he was walking, head down, slightly slouching and each step heavy and weighted. The autumn wind was chilly, blowing with gusto in his direction, and his hoodie seemed a tad too thin for his comfort, but he walked on unfalteringly, every stride carefully measured.

Almost in a trance, she watched him as he came closer and closer. It was supposed to be as normal as any other passer-by walking down her street, but he seemed so out of place here and too sad in this shocking bright autumn landscape. She tried to process it, but her brain seemed to have shut off and she thought to herself impatiently, don’t think, don’t think, just watch.

He reached her house and he stopped, standing at the edge of the pavement. He lifted away the hood of his sweater to reveal a messy crown of black hair and then, his face hit her with full momentum. A breathtaking face that was sharp, angular, boyish and filled with anger— a silent fury that was raging to be unrestrained fully in his grey eyes.  

In a flash, she drew down the curtain blinds and leaned her back against the window. The events from the previous week hurtled through the tunnels of her memory, coming to life before her eyes. She remembered all the blood, so much blood— crimson and thick— streaming out from the woman’s thighs, the woman’s lifeless face that was just as breathtakingly beautiful and of course, the sinking feeling that cleared her boozy head with cutting clarity that she had killed someone.

She knew without a doubt, in that moment of unconscious cerebration, that the boy was the woman’s son.

And she wanted to know what he was here for. Turning around again and peeking through the slits in her blinds, she saw the boy standing there, so still that he could have been a statue.

She held her breath as she watched him numbly and the minutes ticked on, till she was certain that he was never going to leave or move again. And the rest of the world ceased to exist and there was only this boy and her, the girl who was secretly watching him.

And just when she entertained that thought, the boy shifted. And he stooped down, picking up a rock and studying it intently in his palm, rolling it around for several minutes. And then, he sprang onto his feet, and with an intensity that she didn’t think was possible, he flung the rock at her house. He repeated the same ritual a few times, once, twice, three times. And the rocks hit her house with muted thuds, and she watched on, knowing that she probably deserved it and praying for his and her conscience’s sake that her father wouldn’t rush out to investigate.

And then, after a few times, the boy stopped, arms finally hanging limply by his sides. He stood there, breathing hard, the setting sun gilding his hair like black crushed velvet painted with a golden sheen. And she had the crazy urge to heave open the curtains and let him see her.

Just when she was about to do that, he opened his mouth to say something and she could see his lips forming each word cruelly, searing each word into her consciousness.

“I hate you,” he said, looking at the house.

And she saw that he was crying.