Rye

Rye was a good friend of yours back when you were kids.He was a popular kid,well-liked by everyone from 4th grade through 7th grade.He had blonde hair, tan skin, wide happy eyes, and a pretty good build. You two were inseparable.

Rye and you would used to do everything together. You’d sit on his back porch doing homework together and eating pocky sticks with boba tea. When you were younger, you’d pull each other around his back yard in his little red wagon, screaming Duck Tales at the top of your lungs for all the neighborhood to hear. You’d throw your football into the neighbor’s yard on purpose just to annoy him by asking to give it back again and again. Rye would get in his swim trunks and turn on the sprinklers, sprinting through them and challenging you to do a flip over the water. Of course, you never did. But he did.

Rye would always call you ‘Sun’. Because you were the sun in his life. One day, at the age of ten, you two were running around at the local park when Rye fell and scraped his knee. He didn’t cry, but the cut was pretty bad. You had rushed over and helped him take care of it. He smiled, flashing those pearly white teeth.

“Thanks, Sun.” He said, ruffling your hair. Even from a young age, Rye looked a lot older than he really was. He was always pretty tall and handsome. But he stuck by your side, never letting the attention get to his head.

Once seventh grade was over, things started to change. The first day of eighth grade, you ran up to Rye, waving. He waved back, but didn’t smile. Weird. The next day, he had his nails painted black and eyeliner on. He was hanging out with a group of grungy, emo guys that looked at everyone like they killed their dog. After that, Rye’s hair was dyed black. He was skating, he was playing guitar, he completely ignored you. And by high school he was super punky and emo.

One day, in Sophomore year, you bump into Rye. You get up, trying to say something. Trying to ask him why he’d changed so much. Why you two weren’t friends anymore. But he gave you this dirty look, messy black hair swishing as he got up. His skin was paler. His eyeliner was expertly done. His outfit consisted of a gray shirt that said lyrics to some My Chemical Romance song, over a long sleeved black shirt with black cargos as his bottoms. A silver chain hung from his pants.

“Watch where you’re going, pretty girl” He scowled a harshly brushed past you, half-lidded eyes staring into the distance and eyebrows furrowded.