One word: Denise.
He remembered the yellow house next door, how her nickname, Denny, was so close to his (Danny), and how she used to ride that purple bike up and down the street for what looked like hours on end. Ever since he was old enough to remember, he could remember her. The yellow house and the purple bike.
What was funny was that he never had the guts to say 'hi' to her. Not then, not ever.
He'd watch her from his porch as she'd scream in glee as her older brothers would chase her, her long blonde hair flying in the wind. He'd watch her as she'd celebrate her fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh birthday parties, always wearing shades of purple. When he was finally old enough to understand that his feelings for her were more than just a childish obsession, she had moved away. He knew something had to have happened to their family; her mother was alone in the yellow house.
He wondered what had become of her; the sweet girl next door who had only spared smiles at him and yet, had managed to steal his four-year-old heart away. He often wondered if she'd changed; maybe she had dyed her hair black or got a nose ring. The 'maybes' changed every day. Maybe she had tattoos covering her arms. Maybe she was a redhead. Maybe she was a scholar to Yale. Maybe she was an athlete. Maybe she-
Daniel's finishing his homework in trigonometry when he hears it. A car pulls up to the yellow house, nearly eight years after it pulled away so long ago. A girl, no a woman, steps out of the driver's seat, a pair of shades balanced on her forehead, her blonde hair gathered up in high ponytail at the back of her head, a few tendrils escaping the ponytail holder. She looks at the yellow house for a long time, and smiles to herself.
This time, without hesitation, Daniel gets up and is out the door in seconds.
This time, he'll say hello.
Playlist: Lego House - Ed Sheeran
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