A university campus. Mid-September. Spacious lawns and wooded paths in harmony. The heat of summer begins to taper away, leading to pleasant, sleepy afternoons not-yet-burdened by the responsibility of classwork. Young couples sit under trees. Slacklines span between different trees. Students perpetually traverse the sidewalks, each individual one having a purpose, but as a collective, having none. An onlooker would comment, “This is way it should look. This is college.”
Across the lawn from a party of four with a Frisbee, an onlooker comments from a park bench. Wearing an indigo hoodie and wrinkled jeans, she does a good job of blending in with the crowd for being someone who doesn’t belong there. Her gaze on the group is intent, and through a means that would take longer to explain than it’s worth, replaced instead with the catch-all word “magic”, she can hear their every word as clear as if they were sitting on the graffitied bench next to her.
“Them again?” says another woman sitting on the graffitied bench next to her, who had not been there a moment ago but automatically presents the feeling to anyone who looks at her that she’s always been there. A pair of contacts give her irises a violet hue to match her blouse, and combined with overly-blonde and overly-hairsprayed hair, she gives off the vibes of a girl who’s trying too hard.
“Her again,” Indigo clarifies, looking in particular at one of the female frisbee-ers in loose clothes and a black sunhat.
“Oh, pshaw, that old chick again?” Violet answers dismissively, flicking her hand. “I’ve told you, like, a million times, she’s not her.”
Indigo rolls her eyes. “And I’ve told you each of those one million times, I never thought it was her.”
“And I’ve told you she’s not her Ripple, either.”
“I’m not convinced of that.”
“Indie, have you even studied my Ripple? Yes, they have to look the same, but it’s not about personality; it’s about subconscious potential. If she were Blink’s Ripple, she wouldn’t be normal enough to be tossing a Frisbee with friends. Trust me; it’s not her.”
“Vi,” she replies, sighing, “why do you think I’m watching that girl out there?”
Purple-eyes places a dainty hand over her heart, faking offense. “Well, obviously it’s because you don’t trust me, Indie! I swear, it just breaks my heart to see someone like you doubting someone like me.”