I put my hand up against the window, cold from the pouring rain outside, and look out it as the heat from my hand fogs up the glass around it.

I see her again.

The little blonde girl.

She stands in the rain with her face turned up and her arms spread wide, turning and turning in circles around herself as the water hits her face and falls into her open, smiling mouth. Her beauty is evident, radiating off of her even in this restricting place.

In this overwhelming, overbearing world of gray, she can still be joyful and free, even though it is obvious she does not belong here; She lets her hair fall down and around her shoulders. She plucks the prettiest flowers for herself. She jumps in puddles and runs in the middle of the road. She takes off her shoes and walks in the grass barefooted.

And it amazes me.

As she spins, her plain, gray dress flows out from her, spotted with drops of rain. Her feet and ankles are wet, dirtied from the ground. On such a brisk day, I would normally be concerned about her; she might get a cold. With a fever, she wouldn't be able to go outside.

But I get a feeling that she can handle it.

The girl stops and laughs, letting her body twist, so she can look behind her at the boy with the brown hair. He is slightly taller than her and instead of her watery blue eyes, he has deep emerald ones. He frowns at her and shakes his head, opening his mouth to say something.

Her smile fades as she walks back with her hands clasped in front of her, head down, to go stand with the boy under his umbrella. He hands her her shoes and she silently slips them on after shaking the slush off herself. She mumbles something as she brushes the water off of her dress that wasn't absorbed by the cotton fabric yet.

He nods tersely.

As the bus comes, the boy waits for the girl to mount the steps before he closes up the umbrella and shakes it off, stepping on himself. I watch as the little blonde head bobs to the middle of the train where she claims her seat, while the brown-haired boy walks all the way the the back and grabs onto a handle. As they pull away and I can no longer see the two, my hand slips from the window.

It leaves a streak.

My fingers are wet from the condensation on the glass and I touch them to my face. It is cool against my flushed cheeks.

Rain falls down, bounces off of the same old, boring roofs, and hits the ground. It travels a long, long way to reach us, and yet we are not allowed to touch it. Is this what it feels like, to feel the rain on your skin? Is this what the girl breaks the rules for?

The dewy droplets I feel now... I don't think it's quite the same.

The water falling from the blackening sky is her bit of freedom, but this is the closest I can get to that.