Not you.

 There's a certain kind of wind that blows. Roughly and without discernment. There is no telling where it will whip or who it will rustle or what it will blast into a thousand pieces. 

    When it hits you, flinching is no small movement.

    You brace.

    The wind tickles the nape of your neck. You know it must be toying with you. The wreckage is just around the corner.

    You turn, crouch, plant yourself as firmly as you can, all tense and ready as you can be. Expectation curdles in your stomach, in lining too freshly churned to do anything more than know that the worst is coming.

    The wind gently rustles your hair. 

    And then it goes. Gone to find someone else. Not you. And that's one kindness.

    You stand. You can hardly believe it. Relief exudes air out of your mouth. Not you. 

    That poor someone, though. 

    Not you, though. 

    Still... 

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