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I saw you for the first time today. I was sitting in Blue Panda, a cutesy coffee shop beneath my apartment that boasted panda-shaped cakes and what I would argue are the best dirty chai lattes to ever grace this earth. It was raining outside, with fat drops splattering onto the asphalt outside in steady rhythm, splashing up to fall again for an encore. I took a deep sip of my coffee, watching the people get off the bus that had just arrived at the stop. That’s when I saw you. My first thought—that’s an angel.

You stood across the street a few meters away from the bus stop in a pair of jeans you probably borrowed from your mother and a too big flannel shirt that should have been better suited on a lumberjack. In your hands you wrestled with a large yellow umbrella that fluttered about for a while before blooming into a bright sun against the dreary backdrop of city streets and convenience stores. You were just as bright as your umbrella.

You were adorable too, especially when the wind swept your umbrella away and you had to chase your bouncing happiness down to the bus stop where it got stuck and you could retrieve it. It had closed during its flight and you had to reopen it. But when you reopened it your umbrella bloomed into a three-quarter moon instead of a sun and I could see your face get as cloudy as the sky when you realized that one of the tines was broken.

For a moment I thought you would cry, but the sky already seemed to b