Nothing special, no features caught my eyes or something dramatic like that. She was just another girl I made friends with that day. Another girl with brown skin and hair that looks like any small gust of wind will send it flying everywhere. We became friends, we see each other every Tuesday and say hi on every other days.
She was not normal, she was chaos.
The only time I will use “chaos” as a form of endearment is when I’m describing her. She is the epitome of chaos and you can tell from her too-spaced handwriting and scattered papers. But I didn’t start calling her chaos when I saw her biology notes slipped between physics. It was because of her loud-mouthed nature, her passion for equality, and how unapologetic she is when she speaks her mind. She told me she was born when there were riots littering our city. I think a part of that riot lives within her.
A chaos can be soft. And scared. And happy.
It has been three years and she has not changed one bit. If I tell her this she will insist that she got better at some parts and worse at the others. But to me, she is still the chaos that fractured my order, in the best way a fracture can happen. She cut her hair short and had colors in it once, she insisted that it was purple when I can only see bleached orange. I never said that it was ugly. It is not. It was like the tips of her hair were licked by flames and the heat stayed there. She doesn’t have the flames on the tip of her hair anymore, but she’s still taking the world like a whirlwind.
