"It’s not just blue," he muttered, adjusting his lens from across the street. "It’s a storm."
Leo approached, his camera tucked under his jacket. "You're ruining your notebook," he said, his voice barely audible over the downpour.
The neon lights of Madrid’s Malasaña district bled into the puddles on the pavement, but for Leo, the only color that mattered was the electric sapphire of the girl standing by the record shop window.
One evening, the rain turned from a drizzle to a deluge. She didn't run for cover. She simply tilted her head back, letting the water soak into the azure strands until they turned the color of the deep midnight sea.
She didn't look at him, but a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. "Some stories are better when the ink runs. It makes them harder to read, which means only the people who really care will try."
.
