The Sky is Everywhere

Chapter Four

As soon as rec time comes around after lunch the next day, I'm back in my little spot by the fence. I feel anxious and uneasy, and my heart is thrashing like a caged bird, and this is probably a really bad idea.

But Roan isn't here.

I don't know why I thought he would be, except that he'd said he hoped to see me again. I'm surprised by how disappointed I am when he doesn't show.

It's not just because he was beautiful, or because he didn't recoil from me, or because he said that people on the outside do care about us. It's also because I have spent my whole life in the CC, surrounded by the same people, day in and day out. Roan is something new, something different, and I want more than the tiny glimpse that I've seen.

But if he's not here then I should go.

I don't, though.

I sit on the grass in front of the fence, and I wait.

Above me, birds wing their way through the sky. I want to fly with them, to feel the wind ruffle my feathers and the heat of the sun on my skin. I want to dance through that beautiful, free sky, and never come back down.

"Caia."

I hear his voice before I see him, and the way he says my name makes me feel strange in a way that I can't quite decipher.

Roan is standing behind the fence, watching me. The way the sun catches his hair makes it look like it's limned in gold, and his eyes are the colour of the sky.

My heart jumps into my throat, but I can't tell if it's excitement or nerves.

The first time I met him, I was angry and suspicious. Now I don't know how I feel.

Roan smiles, sunshine-warm. "You came back."

"So did you."

"I did say I wanted to see you again." He moves closer to the fence. "I wasn't sure you would come back though."

"Neither was I." I have no idea why I'm being so honest with him.

He sits down opposite me. His clothing is simple; dark blue trousers that I think Taffy says are called jeans, and a light grey jumper that hugs the shape of his body, but it's so different to my CC uniform that I can't stop staring at it. I want to drink in the sight of him for as long as I can, because he is a new shard of colour in my world.

"How do you choose your clothes?" I blurt out.

His eyebrows go up.

"It's just . . ." I fiddle with the shapeless hem of my own jumper.

"You always have to wear that, don't you?" Roan says.

I give a small nod.

None of the books we are given to read contain pictures – though the front covers are usually illustrated – and I've often lingered over lavish descriptions of clothes, imagining all the colours and fabrics, imagining the feel of them against my skin. But how do people on the outside choose what to wear every single day? How are they not overwhelmed by the sheer choice?

"A lot of it's down to personal taste." Roan leans back, resting his weight on his palms, looking as relaxed as a sunbathing cat. "You go shopping, you try on the things you like, and if you can afford them, you buy them."

"But how do you find things you like? How do you know what you like?"

He hesitates, looking down at himself. "I'm not sure how to answer that," he admits.

Because he's never had to think about it. It's a choice that he takes for granted, never even realising that he's doing it.

"What's your favourite colour?" he asks.