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Visha

“What’s your name, kid?” His voice is as tender as a cloud and somewhat familiar like a soul I’ve always known yet can’t remember.

Adults are usually more condescending when talking to me. Often, they dumb down their speech as if I lack brain cells. It’s infuriating.

Such a simple question but my mind goes blank.

What good is a name if the only people calling it use it with hate?

My fingers are so cold they could snap and fall off at any moment. He extends his hand with an affectionate smile, but I ignore it. I blink at the gesture and the manner in which he stays motionless.

He’s going to get mad, isn’t he? They always get mad whenever I refuse something. I can’t bring myself to look up at him.

“Oh, right. Kids shouldn’t talk to strangers.” He chuckles. “You’ve been taught well.”

He isn’t mad. Not at all. His face is bright as he rubs his hands and sniffles in the December night breeze. Every time I exhale, I see my breath go up in the clouded sky. I’m so tired and almost dare to daydream of a warm place to return to.

I don’t have one anymore. At least not one I can call home .

“What’s yours?” I ask for no particular reason. I don’t especially care about his name, so why did I even ask? What a moron.

My eyes follow his every movement as he crouches down with a grin coating his lips then takes off his midnight blue scarf to wrap it around my neck. “You’re going to catch a cold if you stay out here with such light clothes,” he remarks, and I flinch at the graze of his gloved hand against my cheek.

His smile falters for a second but he recollects himself instantly. Does he pity me? He can shove that up his ass for all I care. Pity never brought me anything. Adults love to pretend to care about other people’s miseries and shame them. How about genuinely helping?!

I can’t remember how long I’ve been sitting out here. A few minutes? Hours? It doesn’t really matter in the end since I have to go back sooner or later. I’ll probably get scolded again and ‘dad’ will give me a beating for going out without permission.

What would happen if I decided to stay here and freeze to death instead of heading back? I doubt anyone would even notice if I disappeared tonight and never returned. One more dying petal fallen from the cherry blossom tree.

The young man’s smile is so warm and so is his scarf. I can’t stop myself from burying my nose in it and inhaling his scent. Citrus and Jasmine dance around my nostrils, making my lashes flutter in strange delight. I wonder which cologne he uses. I think I could fall asleep with this scent.

Wait, why the hell am I thinking such odd things about some random guy? Did I finally lose my mind from the beatings and the cold?

“Seems like you like the scarf, huh?” He grins, getting back up and stretching out his legs. “It’s yours now. Consider it a Christmas gift or a simple act of benevolence from a stranger. Ah, but maybe that’s weird? You can throw it away if you want, but it’ll keep you warm for now.”

An angel.

That’s what he is or else why does he show a complete stranger such kindness? I’m just a random kid in the streets on Christmas Eve and yet I got a gift from the most beautiful man I’ve ever encountered. This can’t be my luck shifting, can it? Yeah, right as if.

He doesn’t look down on me, at least I hope not. Throw it away? Like hell I would.

“Visha,” I mumble, surprising both of us.

The man cocks his head slightly and blinks down at me visibly confused, so I repeat myself louder. “Visha.”

For some reason I flush in embarrassment, and I bury my entire face in his scarf. My cheeks heat up to my ears and it seems to be a funny sight because he bursts out laughing.

His voice is like honey as he says, “Your name I presume?”

I nod, barely lifting my eyes to look at his. Ocean. It’s the first thought that flashes through my mind as I take them in, they’re a deep blue like the ocean. Slightly lighter than the scarf.

Is he making fun of me? What a douche. Here I thought he was an angel, but he makes fun of me? I can’t even master the strength to be mad because his laughter sounds like music, and it warms me up inside. His hands are stuffed in his pockets as he sighs.

“I’m not sure if your parents hate you or love you,” he says, exhaling without a care in the world.

The moment those words dare leave his mouth I get up in fury. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

What does a stranger know about my parents? People always assume whatever they want, and judge others based on the scrap they know. He’s like everyone else then.

I start unwrapping the scarf, brows creasing, but he stops me. His warm, covered hand on mine, refraining me from further unravelling it.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he blurts, holding a hand up. “I was wondering because of the meaning of your name. See, Visha stems from Hindu culture but also Sanskrit and can mean 'poison' and 'star'. So, it was hard for me not to be curious. I tend to speak before thinking. Sorry, if I was being inconsiderate,” he says quietly as he rewraps the scarf around my neck and carefully tugs on it.

“That’s stupid.”

It doesn’t matter what it means. Names don’t have meanings. Those who believe otherwise are wrong to think that they have any significance in the world. Our lives are all trivial. Whenever one calls my name, it’s to spit insults at me or to scold me. It’s always spoken with disdain and disgust so who cares about its significance?

“Maybe it is but you know what? I find it to be beautiful and very befitting of its owner.” He pats my head and brushes away the snow that has been piling up on top. “The duality matters. I personally think it tells a lot about you as an individual and what kind of people your parents are.”

It’s a simple touch of his gloved hand and yet my body ignites. No one has ever patted my head, and I doubt they ever wanted to.

“Really?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You disagree?”

I stare at his pale face for a moment, counting the seconds ticking in my mind before I say, “I don’t know.”

His face doesn’t betray a single clue while he keeps a bright smile plastered on at every moment. It seems so genuine that it makes me want to vomit. He can’t actually be sincere. Adults are all the same. Each and every one of them is wretched and rotten to the core. They can’t be trusted. Ever .

“It’s late. You should go home,” he urges and takes a step back.

He’s going to leave. Of course, he is. I mean he doesn’t know me, so he has no reason to stay. It’s natural. He must have someone to head back to. I’m not a priority. Then why does my heart clench in my ribcage? Ugh, I’m going to regret it, but I have to keep him from leaving.

“I don’t have a home,” I admit, sounding pathetic but for once I don’t care.

If it makes him stay even a bit longer, then I’ll tolerate being momentarily more woeful than I truly am. Grownups can’t be trusted but somehow, I want to trust him .

He stops in his tracks and watches me, expressionless. Something akin to sympathy flickers in his gaze but it fades as soon as it appears. It’s strange how he analyses me, my clothes, my face, my hair and even my stance. I hate being watched and scrutinized.

“You don’t have a home? That’s…bad.” He grimaces, awkwardly glancing around himself.

“Duh.”

“Mhm?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Yeah, no shit Sherlock. I have somewhere to head back to, but I really don’t want to go. I hate that place, and they hate me too. Those fake parents and fake siblings. None of them want me there, so why even foster me in the first place?

He holds his chin between two fingers and looks away for a moment, pensive. “Well then. Would you want to come with me?”

Normally, I’d be alarmed and outright refuse, but he seems conflicted with his own offer. He looks like he’s the one being asked and not the other way around. What a funny man.

He extends his hand to me again and this time, without hesitation I grasp it. A strange buzzing in my veins whispers at me to run the other way but I ignore it.

I want to trust someone. Just this once, I want to take a leap of faith. Things can’t get worse anyway, can they?

“Well then, shall we?”

I nod as he leads us down the main road. Despite the snow still falling in thick coats, I don’t feel the frost settling in my bones. No seriously, he’s a literal walking radiator. I can almost feel the warmth of his hand emanating through his glove. Maybe he’s an alien from mars after all rather than an envoy of the heavens.

A saying pops up in my mind for a figment of a second.

Cold hands, warm heart.