The last thing Kai wants to be doing this morning is cleaning up sticky, sweet coffee off of the floor behind the counter of the Starbucks he works at.

            People and cars swoop by outside, everyone hurrying to get to work, to that hair appointment that can’t be rescheduled, to the park for that routine morning jog.

            Everyone moving fast, fast, fast.

            So caught up in their own lives that they don’t take the time to slow down and admire the way a breath puffs a cloud of glittering mist into the air, the way people move around each other like they’re in a synchronized dance, the way the sounds of the city tell stories if you’re willing to stop and listen.

            Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, a neon pink beanie, yellow taxis, steam rising from a cup of coffee, peeling paint on the side of a building, a smile, a shout, a glittering ear piercing, the swirling black lines of a tattoo. All of these little things form a masterpiece that takes Kai by surprise every time, even though he’s lived in New York City for close to three years now.

            The city is a cacophony of life, everyone struggling to find a place among the chaos.

            It’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

            And Kai loves it.

            He loves how every day brings a new set of stories, just waiting to be read.

            This morning, however, Kai is too busy wielding a mop and a bucket of soapy water to pay much attention to the stories surrounding him.

            Whoever had set that full cup of ice cold green tea frappuccino on the edge of the counter right behind Kai’s elbow is forever deemed an idiot in Kai’s opinion. And so is the person who ordered such a cold drink on a day that’s full of gray clouds, and biting winds just waiting to snatch someone’s scarf and blow it in their face. The forecast predicts a 50% chance of snow today.

            Kai had just caught the weather projected onto one of the large screens in Times Square this morning on his way to work. He always tries to walk through Times Square at least once a day when he is out. The heart of the city thrums with energy, to the point where Kai sometimes imagines he can taste it on his tongue.

            He doesn’t own a television; not because he can’t afford it, but because he doesn’t have the space in his small apartment.

            Besides, he can always read the news instead in the newspaper, running his finger along the sentence he is reading to keep his place.

            Kai doesn’t like those stories as much. Those stories are in black and white, short, to-the-point. You can’t read between the lines in those stories.

            Kai straightens up after the coffee on the floor has been cleaned up, sighing. His muscles are sore from dance practice last night, and that, along with his frustration over knocking over a customer’s order, put Kai into a not so bright mood.

            So when a young boy, although probably not much younger than Kai, steps up to the counter, and Kai realizes this must be the idiot who ordered the green tea frappuccino, it’s not unexpected that Kai ask him the number one question on his mind.

            “Are you an idiot?” he blurts out before he can stop himself, and the boy in front of him blinks in surprise.

            “Excuse me?” the boy starts, but Kai is already flushing and stammering out an apology.

            His boss would literally kill him if he knew Kai had just called one of the precious customers an idiot. Although, it had been phrased as a question rather than a direct observation.

            “Never mind,” Kai mutters, looking around for another plastic cup to make another green tea frappuccino. He looks up at the customer in the process, and freezes.

            The boy has brown eyes, sharp features, and rainbow hair.

            “Of course he would have rainbow hair,” Kai thinks sarcastically. Not that he doesn’t like it. It’s different, and Kai thrives off of uniqueness.

            The boy is watching him as Kai takes in everything, including the camera slung around the boy’s neck, the black hoodie he’s wearing, and the faded backpack hung over his left shoulder.

            It’s not unusual for Kai to outright stare at strangers. He can pick up a whole story, real or fake, that way.

            What’s unusual is how long Kai wants to stare at this particular rainbow-haired teenager.

            There’s something different about him. Something fragile in the bones of his wrists, in the curve of his mouth, in the way he holds himself, bending inwards almost imperceptibly as if to shield himself from the rest of the world.

            He looks, and Kai can’t think of any other way to say it, soft.

            So it’s a bit startling when the boy su