It Is Written
A/N: An examination of Ida and Mark's relationship, from Ida's POV. Inspired by a song on the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack
It Is Written
Contrary to what everyone thinks, my first meeting with Mark was not in February of 2008. Our paths had crossed time and again before that; it was inevitable in that small neighborhood where we went to school. San Mariano, despite being a booming town, was never really that big to begin with. We had definitely passed each other on the streets, partied at the same school fairs, and maybe even eaten at the same cafes. However I did not see him; that was a different matter entirely.
"We got to know each other at the right time. Not earlier or later," he said to me one rainy day. The wind was whipping the rain into biting sheets, forcing us to seek shelter in one of the university's more rickety canteens. Somehow we ended up sitting down for a lunch of spicy noodles and dumplings, all the while talking about everything and nothing at once.
I couldn't answer right away since I was chewing on a noodle. "If we'd met in high school, we might have killed each other with immaturity," I said.
"If I'd met you later, you might have already been taken by someone else, like that Ethan fellow in your class," he added. He took a sip of his glass of water. "I wouldn't have liked that."
I somehow couldn't help but smile, not just at the way he was reading my lips but even at the wry look in his eyes. It was so unlike him to contemplate these things; normally he took life in stride and left me to fret over the details of it all. But I liked the change. "So what do you think it was? Coincidence?" I asked after I cut a dumpling in half.
He took the larger half of the dumpling. "The rules of random and chaos working for us."
"God's plan."
"Destiny."
I now laughed. "I thought you didn't really believe in such things."
"I don't. It doesn't mean it's impossible though." He pushed over a dish of soy sauce for me to dip my half of the dumpling in. "You're a writer, you should know what I mean."
I shook my head. "A writer of stories, love. Not really of realities." I dipped my half of the dumpling and chewed on it for a few moments. "But you know what they say, right? You write down something, or tell it to someone, it has more of a chance of actually happening."
"That sounds nice," he said. He gestured to my school bag. "So will I ever get to see what's in that notebook of yours?"
"Someday," I said. It was about time I tore out the pages cursing his existence, and filled them instead with how I really felt.
It Is Written
Contrary to what everyone thinks, my first meeting with Mark was not in February of 2008. Our paths had crossed time and again before that; it was inevitable in that small neighborhood where we went to school. San Mariano, despite being a booming town, was never really that big to begin with. We had definitely passed each other on the streets, partied at the same school fairs, and maybe even eaten at the same cafes. However I did not see him; that was a different matter entirely.
"We got to know each other at the right time. Not earlier or later," he said to me one rainy day. The wind was whipping the rain into biting sheets, forcing us to seek shelter in one of the university's more rickety canteens. Somehow we ended up sitting down for a lunch of spicy noodles and dumplings, all the while talking about everything and nothing at once.
I couldn't answer right away since I was chewing on a noodle. "If we'd met in high school, we might have killed each other with immaturity," I said.
"If I'd met you later, you might have already been taken by someone else, like that Ethan fellow in your class," he added. He took a sip of his glass of water. "I wouldn't have liked that."
I somehow couldn't help but smile, not just at the way he was reading my lips but even at the wry look in his eyes. It was so unlike him to contemplate these things; normally he took life in stride and left me to fret over the details of it all. But I liked the change. "So what do you think it was? Coincidence?" I asked after I cut a dumpling in half.
He took the larger half of the dumpling. "The rules of random and chaos working for us."
"God's plan."
"Destiny."
I now laughed. "I thought you didn't really believe in such things."
"I don't. It doesn't mean it's impossible though." He pushed over a dish of soy sauce for me to dip my half of the dumpling in. "You're a writer, you should know what I mean."
I shook my head. "A writer of stories, love. Not really of realities." I dipped my half of the dumpling and chewed on it for a few moments. "But you know what they say, right? You write down something, or tell it to someone, it has more of a chance of actually happening."
"That sounds nice," he said. He gestured to my school bag. "So will I ever get to see what's in that notebook of yours?"
"Someday," I said. It was about time I tore out the pages cursing his existence, and filled them instead with how I really felt.