His Afflatus.

They walked along the side of the peaceful lake – a place where Ryan spends most of his quality time thinking.

“I just want to break you down so badly," She hummed; the edge of her teeth is bit down on her bottom lip. He hasn’t seen this part of her- the type who jams to rock music. What he remembered, he was unstable. His breathing cut short.

He was breathless.

It left him breathless.

Because girls who are like this makes him breathless.

“You know,” she grinned at him, “If you don’t listen to Taking Back Sunday or Radiohead, you shall listen to them. Like, right now! You’re missing a lot if you don’t!”

He turned his head to her presence, a smirk simply written on his face. “I do. Of course, I’m not skeptical with that kind of music. Those are my kind of music. Listen to The Used, you won’t regret it.”

He watched as her blonde her get blown by the cold wind; a piece of her hair hit his chin. For a small girl like her, she does have a long, smooth hair that makes her look like a young teenage girl. He watched her smile turned into a frown and shook her head, “I don’t like The Used.”

Ryan raised his right eyebrow at the tiny girl, “Didn’t you feel any happiness while listening to their song Hard to Say? Didn’t you feel any uncertain actions – like you felt your heart stump out of yo—“

“Am I supposed to feel anything?” she raised her eyebrows, “I never liked the fact of feeling a song. Usually because it might sink into the spaces of my brain but -I- I think I didn’t feel anything. Not that I don’t like their songs or such, but their lyrics won’t just sink into me; maybe because their lyrics aren’t that accurate to me?”

Ryan stared at her as he twitched his nose, obviously disagreeing, “That’s the reason why songs are made – for you to feel it; for you to feel the rainbow colored part of your life – and for you to feel the other sides of people’s stories. These lyrics that contain a certain song, you may never know, speak up for people who couldn’t open their own perspective about things – people who’d rather set aside everything and keep all of it to themselves. ”

“I just don’t want these words – these lyrics - to sink into me.” she replied, her voice low and soft. “In other words, I don’t want paranoia eat me alive.”

His focus turned to the girl beside him. Sure, he did make music for people to feel less lonely, to feel beautiful in any figure – to feel. They fell into a complete dull silence. All he wanted to do was to shut the fuck up because he thought that he had nothing good to say to young girl beside him anymore.
He dropped the The Used topic; he wouldn’t force her to listen to The Used anymore for not everybody in this world like the same things that he does, anyway.

“You know what I don’t understand?” she asked, engulfing the thick, comforting air. He watched her as she broke the walls that she was about to build.

He slump his back, “State it to me.”

She stopped by on the bench beside the pond. She set herself on the wooden bench, the cup of frappe almost spilled luckily her pair of eyes was faster than the mosquitoes trying to bite her pale vanilla skin.

“I suck.”

“You suck what? Milk bottles? Sure, I truly don't understand that.”

The young girl let out a sarcastic laugh, “Very funny, George. I’m trying to be serious here.”
“And I’m trying to be funny here, Celina.”

She placed her folded hands on her lap as she looked at him. He watched every activity that she was doing at the moment. The way she stared at her made his stomach churned.

How could a girl like her, who touches like a feather, stare at her with sadness filling her soul?
While he was here, full of happiness.

“Suck doesn’t conclude your whole being, lass.” he muttered. “You know what concludes your whole human being, Celina Ivonne?

“Flawed?”

He disagreed with a laugh leaving his soft lips, “No.”

Celina let out a small sigh at him as she shook her head, “Then what, Ryan? Inept?” she chuckled sadly. ”I’m sure that summons your definition of me in you dictionary.”

“False. Exquisite, adjective - meaning: finely done or made; very beautiful or delicate - is the word, Cell. You’re impeccably exquisite, dear.”

She smiled at him vigorously, now she was the one who was out of words.

“Where do you get these words, George the third?”

He grinned at the girl, placing his hand on her folded hands. “I got it from you, the way you smile, the way you do things with so much euphoria just to make others feel the way you do for them– that summons my definition of you in my dictionary.”