Watching someone sleep is not as romantic as it seems to most, particularly if you catch your subject at the wrong hour.

I had such misfortune when I was fourteen and had been woken by a bad dream that I can't remember - although I do remember it started with my father's release from prison, despite him having passed two years before. I woke up and was afraid of getting out from under the bedsheets, lest I found out I was not dreaming, and the tormentor of my dreams was in the room with me.

This went on for about half an hour, until I decided it was all stupid - I was way too old to be scared of some bogeyman or whatever (I had also been adamant, many times before, about telling my peers that the bogeyman didn't exist). I slowly emerged from the sheets, and - upon finding my room empty - felt myself fall into a state of calm which was quickly followed by an urge to use the bathroom.

I had always wondered how Sophie could sleep every night with the knowledge that she was a murderer. Every night at ten, she would take four minutes to pray: normally, she would ask if she'd done the right thing by sending my father away, ask God to open my heart and allow me to forgive her, and then she would pray for the starving children in Africa. The Lord's Prayer would serve as the epilogue; and I would hear a click, and then silence would wrap around me.

Wanting to see if she would still look guilty when she slept, I slowly pushed her door open and ventured inside. I walked slowly, in the dark, until I reached the bed, and watched over her. I've said I don't remember what nightmare had taken my sleep that night, but I do remember that the sight of Sophie sleeping was worse than that: her eyelids were like slits that would not fully reveal her eyes; thus, I could only see the sclera. But even then, I could see her eyes moving, searching, as though she could sense my presence. She made small moans every few seconds that sounded like soft protests; and every few minutes, she would twitch, her body seeming as if it was trying to leap up at me. It was as though she were possessed and was at the mercy of whatever demon had seized her. I don't know what I'd expected to see or feel, but that was not it. I remember being confused as to whether I should feel sorry for her or take pleasure from her apparent suffering (I now know that she was not, in fact, possessed by anything; nor was she suffering).

I made a dash for the door, finding myself fearful of my mother, but still sympathetic with her for whatever reason. More than anything, I wished never to see anyone the way I'd seen her that night.

***

Today, I awoke to my phone buzzing on the nightstand, and I pressed ignore when I saw Sophie's name flashing across the screen.

She always calls twice a week, and I think it's so she can convince herself - and, maybe, God - that she tried, and I'm the one with the problem. The reason that I won't block her, though, is because I'm still holding on to the little hope that she still cares, and she dies a little every time I deliberately send her to my voice mail.

I make my way to Charlene's office as I look over the portfolio I created over the weekend with Jamal and a few additions from Edward - I trust him: he's a PR genius. However, I sometimes don't understand his work or his method, and today is one of the instances where his work eludes me. And I need to understand it if I am to sell this concept to Charlene.

After a soft knock, I am granted permission to go inside.

"Miss Brown," Charlene acknowledges me curtly.

We exchange niceties, and she gets coffee and asks to see my work.

"Explain," she demands dryly.

"Right! As I had explained the other day, the goal of this campaign is to exploit the mutually beneficial relationship between Calvin Klein and Guess, and to use said relationship to integrate his two fanbases.

"Given the fallout from the Blizzard article, our greatest goal with this shoot was not only to make sure that we avoid controversy - Chelsea F.C. and Alejandro probably won't survive another wave of public backlash - but also to actively get the public on his side. To this end, we did a classic sexy shoot for Calvin Klein to appeal to his feminine fans, and a sporty, inoffensive Guess promotion to appeal to his more masculine fans.

"Further than that, we have extended the promotion to include the fans: meet-and-greets, dinners, open training sessions - that appeals to everyone: everyone wants to meet a celebrity; and when celebrities meet their fans, they get to show their human, more compassionate side. This will definitely get the public on Alejandro's side and will turn the initial backlash in our favour. That way, we win; the fans win; everyone is happy."

A smirk spreads across Charlene's face, but she quickly hides it behind her mug. "You continue to impress me. I love this portfolio and the idea of the meet-and-greet. I think it may need to be refined a bit; but, overall, I'm impressed."

From as far back as I can remember, I have always sought the validation of those around me; even though I have tried my best to hide that need. Therefore, Charlene's praise of me is like sugar to my ears. We continue in that vein and iron out the promotion - we call Alejandro's assistant and ask her to send us the former's calendar so we can decide on when the dates with the fans can happen. As a way to get the fans to finance the entire promotion, we decide it's best to donate all profits from it to a charity of the fans' choice.

***

Alejandro:

sweet dreams

are you still into a second date

I'm a bit busy right now prepping for the UEFAs.

You could show up at my house.

I will cook.

cool

its a day visit, right

Cool.

***

As the day goes by, I am informed that I have been assigned to help Patricia with her new campaign: she's been tasked with promoting Diet Coke and counter the studies that show that drinking that is just as bad as drinking a regular cola. Should be easy. No one listens to the scientists.

"Are we cool?" Patricia asks as we start diving into the task.

I turn to her hesitantly. "Yeah. Why?"

"Just-I've been getting the sense that you're avoiding me." She puckers.

"Really? I haven't!"

She raises a brow.

I sigh. "Okay. I thought I'd embarrassed you the other day."

"Why?"

"Just... you know? I feel like I made things weird between you and your friends."

"I still don't understand. Because you didn't drink? Is that why?"

"Well, that, and how everyone got up to leave when they found out I was vegan."

She shakes her head, and a full smile presents itself on her face. "Trust me, it wasn't about you. Everyone is busy, Edgar; and a lot of people really couldn't care less that you don't eat meat - for whatever reason! I'll give you an example: Tristan says his nanny bailed on him, and he had to look after his kid; and Britney is married. Her husband wants her at home by five o'clock or whatever. Kind of narcissistic of you to assume that people were leaving because of you."

That makes a lot of sense! I guess after being persecuted for such a long time, it's easy to assume you're being attacked at every turn!

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realise-"

"It's okay. We'll try again some other time?"

"Okay."

We get back into work.

"And I'm not a narcissist."

She smiles. "Of course, you are."

After meeting up with the marketing department, we conclude that the two - that is, marketing and PR - will work closely together to come up with something. The head of marketing promises to prepare a market survey to get a whiff of contemporary trends, and the direction in which we should take the campaign.

"Any plans today?" Patricia asks as I start preparing to leave.

"Yeah. I'm meeting an old friend."

"Okay. When you're free, how would you feel about a date - just me and you?"

"Cool."

Putting Alejandro's address on Google Maps, I settle into my car. One thing I consider an achievement is how clean my car is: I take it for a wash once a week, and I always ensure that I have an air freshener inside. So, I may be losing in terms of looking after my apartment, but I take good care of my Beetle.

Driving into West Brompton, I get the weird sense that I haven't left the Central Business District - the same leviathan skyscrapers that adorn the skies in the latter never make a scarcity of themselves even as I drive further from their habitat. They are almost ominous in their presence.

The higher above the ground, the better.

***

Alejandro:

Cool.

im here. where do i go

Just go up to the receptionist; he'll tell you where to go.

I turn the ignition off and make my way up the immaculately built hotel. I've been around Edward enough that I know what wealth looks like; so, the heavy doors with gold handles don't faze me. Neither does the sheer opulence of the reception - brought forth by low-hanging crystal chandeliers, gold-lined white walls, lush red drapery, and even redder, unending carpets. Obviously, natural sunlight isn't the goal here - and why should it be? The warm lighting bouncing off the whites, golds, reds, and scarcely present royal blues just adds a luxurious-yet-homely feel to the space.

Everything just embraces you and dares you not to like it.

After giving my details to the receptionist, including my ID (Alejandro had told them I'd be visiting), an escort is sent my way and told to deliver me to Alejandro's suite. I follow him to a singular elevator, generally unused, and he informs me it will take me directly to Alejandro's floor.

It whisks me up and its doors open to reveal a scene completely different from the reception - where the reception was lively with a bold, conspicuously expensive palate, the penthouse is more subdued - expensive, still, but much neater with overall less boldness. The walls are either white, or some other muted tone; the furniture is more practical and less playful with its colour schemes - either sticking to muted tones as well, or slightly deviating to more earthly colours like browns and greens. The very few picture frames on the walls hold some abstract art or something clearly about the history of this place - but nothing personal.

"Hey."

I jump, startled by Alejandro's very sudden voice. Recovering, I turn to find him in a pastel pink Adidas tracksuit. His skin looks as flawless as it was on the day that I first saw him; his face looks slightly more innocent in the tracksuit.

Does he always look this good?

He's not wearing any perfume today. Either that or he's wearing very little. His musky, natural scent is weirdly inoffensive - probably because it's not overpowering, and I had to lean in for a kiss to even catch it.

Musk.

"I'm going to practise on the field today. Do you want to watch?" he asks with a smirk and a naughty glint in his eye, clearly confident that I won't want to be passed up by the opportunity to watch him play. And he's right.

"Now?" I ask, trying to at least seem like I'm not interested.

Is this how cool girls act?

"Yeah. We could chill for a while, but the initial plan was that I'd leave before six."

I grin before I get the opportunity to stop myself. "Cool."

"Cool?"

"Let's go."

He tells me that I will get my car back when we get back - for now, we decide it best to use one car. He gives me the keys to his car and instructs me to drive it down the road and wait for him there. Doing as told, I take the elevator back to the reception and check myself out, immediately sashaying to the parking. A sleek, black Mercedes SUV responds to the remote in my hand. Making my way to it, I push the start button and the engine ignites. I push the heavy gear to 'D' - that's the only button that could possibly get the car to move, right? I press on the accelerator a bit too harshly and am startled by the sudden jerk of the car.

My struggle with understanding the automatic car doesn't last long, however, and I get the car to move the way I want it to after a few minutes of fumbling - during which time, Alejandro has already walked out and is trying to hide the look of worry on his face while being bombarded by every passer-by.

Steve has succeeded in making everyone a paparazzo, hasn't he?

I always thought fame makes one more important, and when one is important to everyone in the world, they feel happy. That's not what I've seen from Alejandro. I honestly want to become super rich and famous but observing Alejandro in the past few times that I have has made me question the sentiment. Sure, he looks like he's coping with it, but I don't think I can honestly say I've seen him happy with being surrounded by strangers that think they know everything about him - and he's under no obligation to be. But a lot of other celebrities make it look easy. Why can't he?

After about ten minutes, a soft knock comes from the passenger-side window. Alejandro stands grinning on the other side of it, gesturing for me to open the door for him.

Maybe I'm wrong about him - maybe he's doing just fine.

"Ten minutes to walk down the street?" I mock him as soon he steps inside the car.

"What can I say? It's the life I signed up for," he answers, his grin never leaving his face. "Are you fine? I saw you struggling with the car."

"I struggled a bit, but I think I've got the hang of things."

"Great." He smiles. After spending a few seconds just grinning at each other like sheepish idiots (thank God his windows are tinted), he declares: "We should start making our way to Stamford Bridge. Do you know it?"

"Aren't we going to the stadium?" I ask.

"Okay; so, you don't know it. I'll give you the directions."

"I'm horrible at taking directions."

"It's not too far: you can't possibly fuck up a five-minute trip."

I smirk. "Want to test your theory?"

He laughs and instructs me to start straight. "Are you from here?"

I feel my palm moisten: I'm not very good at multi-tasking on the road, and I've found talking to be one of the most distracting activities to do while driving - it's why I don't think I will ever carpool. However, I decide to challenge myself: "No."

"Really? Where are you from?"

"Scotland."

He frowns. "Take a left." From my peripheral vision, I notice his brows knit and his face draws itself to his hand, his fingers gently combing through the stubble on his chin, the sound of the strokes sounding almost rough. "So, you're from here?"

I glance at him quickly. "I mean, I guess it depends on how you look at it. There's the whole Brexit thing going on, and Scotland is threatening to leave the UK. Then there's the fact that both kingdoms have different histories and different politics; and the people insisting that they're different - I mean, they-we are, but now those differences are really being mined and highlighted. I don't know, I feel like a migrant."

He is almost inaudible as he responds with a: "Cool."

My tongue reflexively darts out to wet my lips. "Can we please, like, stop talking? I find it difficult to talk and drive."

"Okay," he responds and quickly stretches himself to turn on the radio. I shake my head gently and he sighs - probably in frustration. "So, a grave then?"

Following Alejandro's directions, I notice an unmistakable stadium - disc-shaped, monochromatic, and towering. There's no way it isn't a stadium. I'm surprised by the irrational excitement and pride that courses all around my body.

A few breaths later, however, a sense of melancholy settles inside of me: when I was very little - I must've been five or somewhere around that age - Sophie and my dad fought after my dad took me to Celtic Park - my father's favourite team's home stadium - and Sophie was upset; complaining that I was too young to go to football matches and that my dad was wasting money. Their argument became lesser and lesser about my dad taking me to a football match, and more about the one pointing out the failures of the other.

They got so loud that the neighbours called the police, and Sophie had to take me to stay with her and my grandmother for about a month. During that time, my dad would make day visits and talk to Sophie, bringing her (and me) treats whenever he did. I remember I was scared, praying daily that my parents fall in love with each other again. Eventually, my grandmother convinced Sophie that my father was a good man, and the latter moved back in with my father, and I moved back in with them about two weeks later. I didn't mind because I'd always been especially close to my grandmother, but I was still excited to go back home to both my parents.

A desperate scream from a man next to me - Alejandro - pulls me out of my reverie, and I notice that I am headed straight for a gigantic statue of some ancient footballer with a football tucked between his hand and his hip. I hear myself scream as I fumble to hit the brakes in time.

The next few seconds feel as though I am not in my body - like I am a bystander watching, anticipating the worst. However, the car stops in time, and danger is averted.

Feeling too embarrassed to look Alejandro's way, I mumble a quick- "Sorry"-before placing the car back in position and continuing the drive to parking.

As soon as I put the gear on 'P', I feel the air in the car thicken as I I'm fully aware that Alejandro will want to say something about what just happened. I don't think I'm ready to talk about it. It's not even about being ready to talk, I just don't want to talk about it. But it's clear Alejandro wants, more than anything, to talk. He turns to face me and stares at me in silence, completely ignoring my silent pleas not to talk as I refuse to look his way.

Finally, he speaks: "You want to talk about what happened back there?"

"No," I respond curtly - rudely, even. It's not that I want to be rude, I just really am not up for someone telling me how insane I am.

"Well, I want to talk about it," he responds with as much attitude as me.

"Oh, my God, Alejandro! I said I don't want to talk about it! I'm sorry I almost wrecked your car; I will try to be careful around your jewel next time, I promise!"

Pause. His voice comes softer than I'd like: "That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it." Another pause. "Are you fine, Edgar?"

I push the door open and jump out of the car. Slamming the door shut, I find myself walking. I don't know where I'm headed, but if I can get away from myself, then that's the destination.

Run. Run. That's what I always do. Run.

At least I'm good at something. Fuck if I can't run. I've managed to run from my childhood; I've managed to run from grieving the death of my dad; I've managed to run from my mother; I've managed to run from my home country. Maybe I can run from this? Maybe I can run from myself? Just, become a new person; wipe the slate clean; erase my history and just be a different person.

Why can't I do that?

Drink. A nice cold beer. A nice joint. LSD, maybe? I don't know. I just want to forget.

Why can't I forget?

Maybe if I hit my head really hard, I could forget? And if I hit it hard enough, I would forget forever. That would give me the perfect chance to start it all over. Or it could land me in Bedlam.

Have I made it far? Can he still see me? Do I want him to see me?

No.

I push forcefully against the wind. I want to get away. I don't want to be pushed back to him. Not now.

Why isn't he following me?

It takes me a moment to realise the small streak of moisture that runs down my cheek. It takes a little longer for me to realise that the moisture is coming from my eye. Why can't I be stronger? I don't want to cry. Why am I crying?

I sit on a small flight of stairs to catch my breath. I rest my head on my knees and try not to make my sobs audible. Granted, I am alone, but I don't want to hear myself cry: somehow, that seems more embarrassing than having someone else hear me.