She splashes in rain puddles, only after removing her shoes. They were too slippery anyway. She smiles to herself, doesn't watch the janitor staring from the overhang. She just hops, skips, and jumps to class.

She waits for the green light, fighting not to catch anyone's eye. The little white man flashes and she walks just outside the edge of the crosswalk. Does it make her feel dangerous? Or something closer to the surface?

She jumps off every curb like it's a leap of faith, and glances always at the man behind her while pretending to look at cars. Her music softens her smile, and she looks sad, but she's just thinking.

She talks to people at the bus stop, but they leave their headphones in and stare with the corners of their eyes. No one is nice anymore. No one expects kindness.

She'll leave the same song on repeat for a week and a half, until she knows every word and every chord, until she almost hates it.

She'll smile at everyone, and nod her head. She says thank you to anyone who holds a door, excuses herself from being in anyone's way, and always tells cashiers to have a good day. She's an open heart.

And she goes home alone every night to write about it.