.05.

I don't fully understand how I managed to get myself together, but somehow I pulled on some clean and pressed clothes, put some lip balm on, and I even ran a brush through my curls, separating the tightened locks.

Overall, I represented Hagrid with the same puffy hair and unruly appearance.

Leaning the side of my forehead onto the icy-cold window of the bus, I type in a text message to Erin. I need her sober perspective on this whole situation with Thomas because I feel that I am drowning in this sweet pool of hopes and imagined love so deep that at some point I might start vomiting rainbows and candies.

Erin is always clear with her judgment and opinion, and in our friendship, she is the person who would tell you if your hair looked awful or your eyeliner was too thick, whilst I was the one who would compliment looks just to boost someone's confidence.

Sometimes I wonder what Erin and I would be if we were fonts on a Word Document. My friend would definitely be a newspaper article typed sensibly in Times New Roman, whilst I would be Segoe Script written in swirls on a coffee-stained paper.

It is bizarre to compare ourselves to objects or phenomenons, but isn't it wonderful to represent natural occurrences such as storms or calm waters? Isn't it beautiful to remind someone of poetry? When someone thinks of you as a grainy Polaroid photograph?

The bus stop where I need to get off is nearly there, so I press the red stop button, gripping the pole, and make my way downstairs.

Ambling down the Tower Bridge Road, I plug earphones into my ears and choose yet another melancholic Lana Del Rey song.

People rush by, dressed in office clothes, gray-white-black, possibly hurrying to the underground and then home. I can't help but follow with my eyes lean women in immaculate suits that hug at their curves. The heels of their polished shoes click as they gracefully glide through the crowd of other working people.

Men in suits, men in jeans; women in suits, women in jeans.

Where are all of them going? Are they going home to their families? Are they going home to their partners? Or perhaps an empty house.

I am different because I am an artist surrounded by office robots in the working district. But I still find them beautiful, no matter how deeply immersed they are in their routine.

And this city, London, is made of concrete and brick. The streets are paved with cobblestone, and streetlights line the narrow lanes. When I look around, everything is a palette of taupe and spruce, burgundy and dirty-white.

The sun is hidden behind the concrete jungles, only wisps of pastel-blue could be seen on the visible patches of the clear sky. The air is filled with the aftermath of numerous transports that operate in London. My ears are stupefied by the music in my earphones, but even over the playing song I could hear cars honking, tires rolling on the asphalt, people chattering.

I think I might go mad.

♨︎

Thomas is sitting on the embankment's barrier, his legs dangling. He is dressed casually, white sneakers, dark trousers and a charcoal knee-length coat. I can't believe he is wearing a coat, too.

My head gets cloudy with Thomas. I mentally analyse his outfit, his sitting position just like Sherlock Holmes does. Thomas is such a natural at what he likes, what interests he pursues, what books he reads because when I try to read him, there is no writing in-between the lines, it's just pure text that you either read or don't read.

I mentally shake my head and push the thoughts to the back of my head because I definitely don't know this green-eyed boy very well to be making these big assumptions.

A book lays open on his lap, and he occasionally looks up to a passerby but quickly darts his eyes back to his book.

I stand a good distance away from him, clutching my tote bag closer to my body. I eye the passing people, the slight motion of his straight hair as the chilling wind tugs at it, the glimmering Thames stretched out along the embankment.

Taking in a breath, I lift my foot over the ground, ready to take the step.

He lifts his head up, and I dart my eyes around the people, my head instinctually following my gaze. Once our eyes lock together, I raise my brows and part my lips. To finish the whole act, I quickly plaster a 'oh-I'haven't-noticed-you-before' smile and hurry towards him, careful not to step in anyone's way.

I wonder what gave me away. I also wonder if he saw through my pretense act.

This guy waves at me, and my stomach is growing funny. Just like it does when I'm about to take my exam or do an oral presentation in front of an audience.

"Nice to see you," I breathe.

He stands up, pressing the book to his side. "Likewise. You've been standing there for ages, didn't you recognise me?"

Oh. Right. About that.

I laugh nervously. "It's quite difficult to do so when you are not in your barista apron with this," I flap my hand to his hair, "voluminous hairstyle."

Thomas moves his head out of the threat of my flapping hand, his brows furrowing. I instantly drop my hand to my side.

"I see," he says, running a hand through his hair. Now it doesn't look like Keanu Reeves's 90s hairstyle, he just looks like himself. "Do you then prefer me wearing my cool barista apron?"

"Well, if you put it that way, then yes, I do. But only because that's what you have been wearing when I first met you."

That was very bold of me to say. I hope he doesn't misinterpret it. To my relief, he just grins down at me, and I hate that I am shorter than him, but my height is unchangeable.

"I am once again flattered by your praise, Maeve, but I actually invited you," he trails off, looking down at his sneakers, "to get to know you better. I'm a firm believer that random encounters aren't completely random. I believe that they happen for a reason."

To say I am taken aback by his confession is like to say nothing. I consider his words for a moment before I reach out and pat his left shoulder.

"Thomas, if I hadn't believed the same thing, I wouldn't have been standing in front of you."

We smile at each other at the same time as our gazes lock.

"Splendid because it would have been such a shame to waste a picnic in a park with a cup of well-you-know-what," he smirks.

Narrowing my eyes, I look around myself, at people. They seem so oblivious to the fact that this guy in front of me is actually inviting me for a one-to-one meeting right at the same time as they are passing by.

And, of course, coffee is involved, so what could go wrong?

"Oh, my friend, you certainly know how to intrigue me. Wait a minute," I say, scratching my chin, "who told you I was unaware of the picnic and coffee? Maybe," I step closer to him, "I knew it all along."

His eyes widen at our proximity, and a nervous laugh escapes from Thomas. "You are very intimidating."

Surprised by my own audacity to cross his personal space, I quickly step back, muttering an apology.

Thomas just shakes his head. "We better set off now, I have got a very cool location in mind. But before that, let's stop at the cafe to grab some snacks, alright?"

I nod my head eagerly, and we start walking towards the Globe Theatre.

The sun has started to settle at the base of the horizon, painting thin clouds in pale hues of orange and warmth, even though the sky beyond the clouds is bright blue. As we face the sun, I dart my eyes to Thomas, catching him squint his eyes against the flashing sunlight. I am lucky to be rescued by my average height because the moving crowd in front of us blocks the attacking sun. For me, at least.

Shivering slightly, I remember to acknowledge the chilling autumn wind, which whips at my curls, sending them flying around me like a billowing cape. I look to my right, bending slightly over Thomas, to observe ferries that take tourists along the Thames. The river is still the same muddy-brown as it has always been.

Thomas follows my gaze. "Are you looking at the river or the tourists?" he asks, and I nod my head at "the river".

He bobs his head knowingly, "I find this river quite fascinating."

"Same here. I've got to admit I've always liked this colour. It seems to add to London's air of mystery."

He snorts. "There is an air of mystery to London? Really? I was mainly talking about the historical aspect of Thames."

"And what would be the historical aspect of the river, pray tell?" I ask in a mocking tone, returning my full attention to the view in front of me.

Tourists. People. Seagulls. Oh, and the glimpse of the setting sun.

"The river carries an immense history with itself. It's been here forever. Until the Romans came here and decided England was a desirable piece of land."

"I've never thought about it like that. I guess we often avoid overthinking since our tiny human brain isn't capable of processing such enormous information."

"Indeed, it just makes us realise how limited we are, unlike nature. It's so worthy and mighty. God created us like tiny specks against the vastness of the world."

I crane my neck to get a better look at him, as we continue ambling along the embankment towards the Globe. "I haven't thought about it this way either. Now I feel like an egoist."

"I never think like that, too. So, let's be egoists together," he grins, and it's so contagious I have to return it. "This has just come around in my mind. We get so engrossed in our routine that we forget our purpose, sadly."

"So you admit you were trying to impress me with this philosophy talk?"

"You would never know," he sighs.

I gaze into the distance, mulling over his words. What is my purpose then? Surely it's to create art and share it with people. Evoke emotions and ideas. Reminisce moments from their past or visualise future through the colours and tones depicted in my art. Maybe that was my purpose? Can I bring good to this humanity through paint and canvas?

"Are you thinking about your purpose now?" Thomas asks me suddenly.

I whirl my head at him in surprise. "Yes! Are you, too?"

He nods and gives me a feline smile.

"What would your purpose be?" I give him a questioning look and fold my arms over my chest.

The air is chilly, and I am grateful Mum made me wear a black coat that reaches to my calves. It's an elegant one that I have buttoned up from collar to hem with a waisted frame, its sleeves and collar embroidered in silvery flowers. I might have passed the vibe check for the Darkling and his black kefta.

"I think it will be protecting people and speaking up for them. Supporting them with my knowledge of the law and their rights. Maybe," he trails off.

No, this can't be. I was so sure he is studying mathematics or science, but he is a future lawyer? He is like Harvey Specter? Or Mike Ross?

Oh, wait, Mike Ross was a fraud. Technically but not practically.

I catch his gaze on my face. "It's funny but I thought you were a mathematician. Or a chemist."

"Why is that?" he looks at me incredulously, creasing his high forehead.

"You play chess like a pro or should I say a grandmaster, so I put two and two together," I drawl.

Thomas takes a moment to digest my words, smiling to himself.

Too engrossed in watching his reaction, I successfully bump my shoulder into somebody. I groan an 'oh' from the impact clutching my left shoulder, and the middle-aged wrongdoer just scowls at me and walks past us.

What an asshole!

"Hey, excuse me," Thomas calls out, speeding up. My heart leaps, and I grab Thomas's forearm, stopping him.

But the man just shoots him a disgusted look and disappears into the crowd.

"Never mind, Thomas, really."

"What a blo..." he clamps his mouth shut, his eyes darting to me. "Pardon me," he recoils, "shall we continue?"

My chest shakes with laughter I haven't realised I was suppressing. I look up at him and catch him gazing down at me once again. His hair sways with the gentle wind, picking up at a strand, which falls on his forehead, obscuring his brow. Deep olive-green eyes flicker from beneath his lashes, almost smiling at me.

"Let's continue," I muse.

He circles behind me, and now he stands on my left, closer to the moving crowd.

Simpering, I loop my arm around his forearm, and he places his hands into the pockets of his grey coat.

I don't care if I am going to be sad and heartbroken by the end of this. I just want to live through it, and enjoy this blooming person beside me. It's my first time feeling safe and exhilarated next to a guy, so why not seize the day?

"What were you going to say back then?" I ask as Thomas propels us towards a coffee shop next to the Globe.

"Bloody bastard," he scoffed.

"How English of you," I tease.