My funny valentine
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart...
Cookie
New York is all rain tonight—fat, silvery drops clinging to everything, washing the city in streaks of melted neon and hope.
It's a rain that doesn't ask for permission, just soaks through your shoes and your soul, reminding you that you're still here, that the world is still moving, even when you're not.
The coffee shop is a cocoon—warm lights and the low hum of espresso machines, muffled laughter, a couple in the corner pressed close, steam rising from paper cups.
I find my spot in the back, away from the window, just me and my sketchbook. I flip to a blank page, tracing circles with the tip of my pencil, trying to chase down a feeling.
I draw hands tonight—my hands, maybe, or someone else's. Long fingers, knuckles smudged, a thumb bent in just the right way.
Sometimes I think I could fall in love with hands before I ever fall in love with a face.
Around me, the world is noise.
Baristas calling out names, someone fumbling for change, rain slapping the window in little angry rhythms.
I tune it out, pulling my hoodie up, tucking my knees beneath me, safe in my corner where nobody expects me to be interesting or clever or brave.
My phone buzzes against the table.
Tara's name.
"Cookie, party tonight. No excuses. Please?"
I type out a non-answer—"Busy"—but she knows I'm lying.
They always know. They say I "hide" behind my art, that I'll never meet anyone if I keep disappearing into cartoon worlds and Copic markers.
But tonight, the city feels like it belongs to dreamers.
I look up and watch the rain chase itself down the glass, people hurrying by in blurs of umbrellas and hunched shoulders.
It's strange, how easy it is to vanish in a city of millions.
And then—
I hear it.
Not the usual café playlist, not even from the speakers. It's outside.
A guitar, soft, off-key, but aching with something real.
A voice follows, thin and cracked, wrapping around the melody like fog.
I freeze, pencil in midair, heart stuttering as I press my forehead to the window.
There—on the sidewalk, halfway between the coffee shop's glow and the street's darkness—a boy sits hunched over his guitar, singing to no one and everyone.
The song is "My Funny Valentine."
But it's different—broken, beautiful, every note like a secret only I'm meant to hear.
I don't know why, but I can't move.
I just watch him, lips barely moving, eyes half-shut against the rain, fingers dancing over guitar strings.
Nobody else seems to notice.
But for a moment, I feel like the only person in New York.
The song drifts through the glass, tangling with the rain and the glow of the traffic lights. I press my palm to the window. It's cold, and so am I, suddenly—shivering, but not from the air.
Before I know it, I'm standing. My sketchbook, coffee, and bag all in a clumsy armful. I mumble an apology to nobody in particular as I nearly trip over a chair. The barista barely glances up as I push out the door and into the dark.
Outside, the world is sharper. Wet hair sticks to my cheeks. The rain smells like iron and asphalt, the kind of smell that makes you remember old heartbreaks and missed trains. A car honks, neon red blinking off a puddle, and my shoes fill with cold water in the first two steps.
The music is louder now—raw, close.
He's right there, barely five feet away, sitting on a folding chair like it grew out of the sidewalk. A battered guitar rests across his knees, case cracked open by his foot. The inside is scattered with crumpled dollar bills, coins, a forgotten cigarette.
Up close, he's almost more shadow than boy.
Hair too dark, skin too pale, like he's been poured from the city's rainwater and old jazz records. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy, hidden behind a curtain of lashes and hair.
He's not beautiful in the obvious way—he's beautiful the way old photographs are, haunting and a little ruined.
His voice isn't strong. It cracks on the high notes, wavers on the low.
But the song—God, the song. It feels like falling in love with the inside of a bruise.
I hover near the edge of the awning, sketchbook clutched to my chest, not sure what to do with my hands, not sure why I came out here at all.
The city keeps moving.
Nobody notices me, or him, or the music threading through the rain.
A woman sweeps past, umbrella brushing my shoulder. She drops a quarter in his case without looking up.
He doesn't stop playing. He barely moves. His fingers look too elegant for the rest of him, thin and quick, plucking out heartbreak in G minor.
I watch, transfixed.
The last notes tremble in the air, shivering, dissolving into the city's noise.
He looks up.
For a heartbeat, his eyes meet mine.
There's no smile, no invitation—just a flicker of something ancient and tired, like he's seen me before, maybe in another life or a dream he's already forgotten.
The moment passes.
He blinks, looks down, and starts a new song, this one softer, more hopeful. "Let's Get Lost," he sings, and I almost laugh, because I already am.
I stand there, soaked and trembling, caught between running away and running closer, wanting to say something but not knowing what.
I stay until the rain chills me to the bone, until my socks squish and the city swallows the music.
When I finally leave, I look back.
He's still singing to no one.
The rain isn't gentle anymore. It's coming down in angry sheets, drumming against the hood of my sweatshirt and trickling under my collar. By the time I reach the end of the block, I'm shivering and my sketchbook feels twice as heavy.
I should be annoyed. I should be cold, wet, and miserable.
But I'm not.
I keep replaying that voice in my head—the bruised velvet of it, that flicker of eye contact, the way the notes hung between us like a secret.
A bus rumbles past, splashing a puddle onto my shoes.
Some girls laugh behind me, their voices high and careless, but I barely hear them.
The city is blurred around the edges, neon smeared like watercolors, every honk and shout muffled by the storm.
Everything feels far away—except the echo of that song, and the memory of him.
I duck under an awning for a second, letting the rain run off my face.
Fumble in my backpack for my sketchbook. My hands are shaking, cold, but I flip to a new page and try to draw him before the details fade.
I start with the hands—slender, a little dirty, guitar strings pressed into the skin.
A smudge of shadow for his jaw, a curve for the wild hair, the darkness beneath his eyes.
It's not a perfect sketch.
It's almost not even good.
But it feels right.
The page is wrinkled from a raindrop. I scribble "My Funny Valentine" in the margin, a jagged little heart beside it.
My phone buzzes again. Janelle this time.
"Where are you? We're at the party. Come!"
I almost laugh. I can't remember the last time something as simple as a party felt urgent.
I text back:
"Maybe next time."
I slide my sketchbook away, pull my hood up, and start home again, hugging my art to my chest.
Tonight, the city feels different—like it's humming with music I can almost hear, but can't quite follow.
And even though I don't know his name, I know I'll be back tomorrow, hoping he'll be there.
The city never really sleeps, but my corner of it is quieter than most—just the distant sound of sirens, the radiator clanking in the wall, and rain rattling against the old window.
I peel off my soaked sneakers and drop my bag by the door. I'm shivering, my hair a tangle of wet curls, mascara smudged under my eyes. I should shower. I should get warm, crawl under the covers, and try to forget about the strange boy with the sad songs.
But I can't.
My head is full of music.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the way his fingers moved over the strings, the way his voice wrapped around "My Funny Valentine" like a secret.
I want to draw him again, but I'm afraid if I open the sketchbook, all I'll find are scribbles and rain.
I flick on the little lamp by my bed, pull my knees to my chest, and open a blank page anyway.
I start with his hands—again. The curve of his wrist, the way the knuckles caught the streetlight, the gentle tremble in his fingers.
I try to draw his face, but it keeps coming out wrong. Too soft, too sharp, too sad, not sad enough.
Frustrated, I scribble lyrics in the margin.
"You make me smile with my heart..."
I wonder what it's like to make someone feel like that.
I look at the time. Midnight.
Janelle texts me again.
"Did you get home safe? Where are you? Party's lame, come over!"
I don't answer.
I'm not really here—not tonight. Part of me is still standing in the rain, clutching a sketchbook, waiting for another song.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
I leave the sketchbook open beside me, fall into bed, and let the city's lullaby carry me off—
but even in dreams, there's jazz on the air, and a boy in the shadows, singing just for me.
_______
The next day
By noon, the rain's mostly stopped but the city is still gray—clouds clinging to the sky, puddles reflecting tall buildings and muddy sneakers.
I'm wedged between Janelle and Tara at a sticky cafeteria table, a half-eaten veggie wrap growing soggy on my tray. I'm not really listening, just nodding along as Janelle rants about her film class professor and Tara flirts with the barista at the next table over.
Janelle elbows me. "Earth to Cookie! You barely touched your food."
I blink, startled. "Sorry. Just tired."
She eyes me, suspicious. "You look tired. Did you stay up drawing again?"
I shrug, tucking a long black curl behind my ear. "Maybe."
Tara grins, waggling her brows. "Ooh, she's hiding something."
"Let me guess—another comic about tragic jazz musicians?"
I roll my eyes, but can't help smiling. "Maybe. You know me."
They laugh, and for a moment, I almost feel present. But in my head, I'm still tracing the way his hands moved, the way his song made the city feel smaller and bigger at the same time.
A commotion outside the window catches my eye—someone's playing guitar, the chords drifting through the courtyard. I can't hear the words over the cafeteria noise, but the shape of the boy on the bench is too familiar: slouched, skinny, hair falling in his eyes, clothes that look like they belong in another decade.
My heart skips.
"I'll be right back," I blurt, grabbing my sketchbook and sliding out from the table before they can tease me further.
"Cookie! We have class in twenty minutes!" Janelle calls after me.
But the music is calling louder.
I push out into the damp air, the city's smell a mix of wet leaves and cheap coffee. The crowd thins as I cross the quad, my sneakers squeaking, curls bouncing with every hurried step.
He's there, right by the fountain—same folding chair, same battered guitar, same dreamy look, like he's halfway between here and somewhere else.
Today he's singing "I Fall In Love Too Easily," voice soft but bright as sunlight breaking through cloud.
He doesn't look up, but something in me says he knows I'm there.
I hug my sketchbook to my chest and just listen, letting the world fade to his voice.
For the second time in two days, I forget everything but him.
_____________
I find a spot on the low stone wall by the fountain, sketchbook perched on my knees, heart thrumming out of sync with the city. The musician from last night—the boy with rain in his hair and a guitar that looks older than he is—is already playing.
He's singing so softly I almost have to lean forward to catch it:
"I fall in love too easily,
I fall in love too fast..."
His voice is tired velvet, wrapping around the melody like a secret.
I start to sketch—first the long, nervous fingers on the strings, then the downward tilt of his head, that stubborn bit of hair always falling over his eyes.
He doesn't look up. He barely moves.
A group of students cut across the quad, one of them tossing a coin into his open case. No one else really stops.
But I can't take my eyes off him.
His mouth shapes the next line, softer still:
"I fall in love too terribly hard,
For love to ever last..."
He closes his eyes. I see the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows—maybe nervous, maybe just cold.
I wonder what he's thinking. Who he's singing for.
I try to catch his likeness on the page, but my pencil can't quite keep up with the feeling.
He murmurs the last lyric, barely more than a whisper:
"My heart should be well-schooled
'Cause I've been fooled in the past..."
The notes linger, floating on the gray air, then fade away with the breeze and the bell from the library tower.
He sets the guitar across his lap, rubs his hands together like he's trying to warm them up, then stands and shakes the water from his hair. He glances across the quad, and for the briefest second, his gaze passes over me.
My heart stutters.
I want to speak—I do. I want to say something simple: You're incredible or I love that song. But the words dissolve before they can reach my mouth.
He slings the guitar over his shoulder, pockets a few coins, and melts into the lunchtime crowd.
I stare after him, damp curls sticking to my cheeks, sketchbook heavy on my knees.
I glance down at my drawing, at the unfinished curve of his jaw, and scrawl beneath it:
The boy who sings to nobody.
The song that's just for me.