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It became her routine for the course of the past few months.

That's how long it has been, months since the last time (Y/N) Mahfouz saw or heard anything about Marc Spector and she felt herself slowly loosing her sanity throughout those exhaustingly long days and weeks.

She called him several times a day, but she berber received an answer or even a voicemail explaining or even confirming that he was still alive and well. It was as if he never existed and vanished out of nowhere. To say (Y/N) was worried was an understatement.

She found herself going through that same torturous routine all over again, sitting comfortably in the table of her own living space with one (much like the only) close friend she's ever confided in her terrible situation and the only person that could understand her completely, Layla El-Fouly.

Layla sat across from (Y/N) as she watched her grab the phone and type the same number all over again. She would lie if she said she wasn't worried for one close friend of hers, but (Y/N) had taken it a step further.

"Stop it, you're just torturing yourself at this point," Layla scolded, reaching out to pull the phone out of her hand. "It's been months, you have to rest."

"I can't," (Y/N) responded, placing her phone back to her ear to hear the beeping from the other line of the phone, signaling that it was still ringing on the other end. "I feel like something good will come out of this call."

"That's what you said last time," Layla reminded. "And the day before, and the day before, and — "

"Okay! I got it," (Y/N) shot her a playful glare while Layla flashed her signature grin. "This is the last one. I promise."

(Y/N) continued to hear the beeping on the phone and just as she was about to give up, once again, and shut off her phone, there was a quiet beep on the other line, signaling that someone had finally answered.

"Yeah?" she heard his voice from the other line, but it sounded quite different than before. When she heard her friend speak, Layla stood up straight in her seat and gestured to put him on speaker.

"Oh, my God. I knew you were alive," (Y/N) sighed in relief and passed a hand through her forehead to wipe the nervous sweating.

"Yeah, all right," he proceeded to continue in the same British accent, which caused her eyebrows to furrow, especially because of the confused tone in his voice.

"That's all? Seriously? I've been calling and texting you every day for months. You didn't have it in you to give me any sign that you were okay?" (Y/N) continued her ramble and didn't notice she wasn't letting him speak. "I thought something had happened. Where are you? Where've you been?"

He paused and didn't reply, letting the line go silent for a few seconds. "Uh. . ."

"Are you still there?"

"Sorry, I just found this phone in my flat, and I'm just trying to figure out whose it is," he spoke again, his tone shaky.

"What is with the accent?" Layla questioned this time, her face expressing the same confusion.

"What?"

"What are you doing right now?" (Y/N) inquired. "I'll try to find you."

"Sorry, who do you think I am?" he asked x

"What do you mean 'who'?" By this moment, (Y/N) was loosing her final straw of patience, trying to hold herself together to not yell to the phone. "What's going on with you, Marc?"

"What did you just call me?" he muttered. "Who is this? Why did you call me Marc?"

Layla gestured for her to hang up and (Y/N) did as told, starting to bite her bottom lip out of nervousness the moment she removed the phone away from her ear since she didn't know what else to do.

"What do you want to do now?" Layla asked, crossing her arms in her chest.

"Track his phone and try to find him?"

"Deal."