David was very different from Luke. He browsed through the files with the ability of a piano player. He was a perfectionist. He didn't talk much but made strong affirmations, and he got lost in ruminations after every sentence he said, as if seeking out for another more appropriate way to rephrase it. I was impressed by how he achieved to sound so sure of himself even so.

I assumed his actions were spare because his brain consumed all the activity his body could afford. I was surprised that his retarded tempo didn't fail to show how astonishingly intelligent he was. It must have been due to the perfect way in which it squared with the dull, non-stopping rain outside the window. Everything seemed lethargic in Oxford that January. Everything but my sister, who made heroic efforts to illuminate my darkness with her smile and her perfect, sunshine-blond hair every morning.

A few shy signs of tiredness usually appeared on David's tan face around ten, and he used to dash to the counter at the top floor of Blackwell and bring muffins and cookies for the three of us.

At first, I suspected my sister was falling in love with his broad mandible, American smile and casually distressed hair. He was very attractive, and he was aware of it. His elegant insolence awakened my admiration and hatred at the same time. He seemed too proud of himself, but he had undeniable reasons for it.

Then, I realized it was probably the other way around. He always seemed to know which muffin Lindsay preferred, and never bothered to ask which my pastry preferences were. The feeling of jealousy it caused me surprised me every time. Anyway, he usually decided on double or triple chocolate cookies, so he kept me happy.

After our indulgence break, he continued looking for a case that resembled ours, burying himself and our table in piles of legal reports, aching to find a clue from which to start building up our case. My sister read books and scribbled in her recycled vintage notebooks. She didn't talk, and she didn't answer when I asked her dumb questions, out of fear, and out of boredom.

I was still anxious. I closed my eyes and found myself looking out at the lake from my dorm. I tried to change that memory, to change my actions in the past, to jump out of the window and get soaked in the cold water. That would surely relieve the suffocating heat that spread through my body when anxiety overcame me; the heat that, defying the laws of physiology, contracted my arteries and veins, and stopped my circulation for a few seconds. As I didn't manage to feel the refreshing Worcester water, I usually stood up and wondered through the second-hand book section, until my body managed to go back to homeostasis.

Those sleepless researching nights seemed to belong to another life. Back then, I thought anxiety, pins and needles, headaches and fainting would all be over once I got to the bottom of my investigation. I thought eternity awaited Luke and me on his bed, waking up at midday every weekend, spending our days discovering London, and having dinner at Covent Garden. Instead, I was still caged in volatility and throwing time away. Even though I should have started considering time renewable two months before, I still whipped myself at night, recalling everything I hadn't managed to achieve during the day.

But even though instability was what marked every day, I started to find normality in our Blackwell routine. Normality, and comfort.

Lindsay and I used to wait for David sitting on the wooden tables outside The Kings Arms. He would come riding his bike through Holywell Street, from the old apartment that he had rented near New College. He rode an old, worn down bicycle. I used to joke that he would look like the protagonist of a black and white film if he rode that bike under The Bridge of Sighs. I felt strange when I joked. Out of myself. In an era where Nora was alive, I was thirteen and innocent, and only dreamt about the summer and seeing the world.

Some mornings, anxiety didn't haunt me, and sadness did. When that happened, I run down the stairs and picked up teenage romantic books in the ground floor, and hid in the basement, behind the bookshelves in the Medicine section. I cried myself out until I had no more tears inside. I still couldn't believe that Luke had abandoned me. I played every single moment we had shared over and over in my mind, trying to find a reason.

Lindsay had already given me one that I kind of liked. She thought that everything that had happened had been too overwhelming for Luke, and he just had decided that he couldn't cope with anything that complicated. My sister believed that Luke was a coward, but not a traitor. I kind of liked that theory because I could still hope his love had been true. When I considered the possibility that he had just used me, disorientation ate me up. If that was the case, then nothing had been true. Not the lasagna at the Seven Sisters, not a single kiss. Those thoughts cut me open, so I put them away as soon as they grazed my conscience.

One morning, hidden, with my eyes fixated on Anatomy books, my mind drifted back to when I started studying Medicine and had those books in my desk all the time. Back then, I dreamed of being able to understand medical cases fully, to form cross-links of ideas in my mind, like doctors that taught us or those on TV series did. It had taken me five years to achieve what I wanted then.

Maybe it would take me another five to get what I wanted now: real love. Or perhaps I would run into the love of my life the following day. Or maybe Luke was the love of my life and timing hadn't been good for us. Maybe we would be together again, sometime. I hoped that was the right theory. But maybe, just maybe, I would decide to settle on being alone my whole life. Maybe, just maybe, love didn't make us free after all. Maybe it only trapped us in a loop of sorrow and illogicality and deranged us.

I dried my eyes with a soaked Kleenex that did nothing but wet them some more, and made my way upstairs, still rubbing my wet skin, and feeling sore and achy and jinxed and miserable. The smell of coffee at the cafeteria unclogged my mind a little.

"Hey." Lindsay said, as she saw me walking towards her.

She got up and moved my chair away from the table so I could sit comfortably. I sat down, without daring to look up at her. I felt ungrateful every time I cried in front of her. I knew she was doing everything in her hands for me to be my old self again. I didn't want her to feel frustrated and incapable. On weekends, back at Brighton, the feeling of being ingrate became overwhelming. Mum and dad wrapped me up in blankets and hopeful words and empty smiles, and I didn't respond. I just lay like a lifeless, dry object they insisted on keeping safe and sound. They sat by me and whispered in my ear every few minutes. They never said "It's all going to be alright", because they were afraid to make that promise. They just repeated they loved me, and that they were always going to be on my side. I tried hard to find comfort in those sincere words. Sometimes I did.

Some nights, I heard them cry, quietly, in their bedroom. They couldn't protect me anymore. I told them not to cry. After all, they had never been able to protect me from wear and tear, from time, and that that had never made them sad. Now, nobody needed that protection. Those consolation words only made mum cry some more. When that happened, Lindsay took me to my room and spent the night in my bedroom. She talked to me about the things we used to talk about when we were little and they allowed us to sleep together. She laughed when she remembered how she used to be afraid of the silver star-lights in my roof. She thought they were the wands of bad witches. I assured her they were gifts from fairies, and that she could make a wish looking at each of them, every night.

When I found out Nora was sick, I hid myself behind my blankets. Lindsay came to my room, and, looking at each of the lights, she repeated: "Our beloved fairies, please make Nora healthy again". That's when she corroborated I had lied to her, and I corroborated the gift from the fairies was her. And that January at Blackwell, I confirmed once again that she did not only have the face of an angel: She was one.

"Tess, I have to tell you something, now that David's buying snacks."

"Go ahead." I said, and I looked up.

A part of me was even tempted to smile after having revived those tender moments I had lived with her.

"David wants to take you to dinner sometime. He confessed it to me just now."

I was expecting just another dramatic piece of news. Lindsay talking to me about a boy and a date was too normal, which made it too awkward. The fact that the boy was David only made it stranger. He had never shown that kind of interest in me.

"What? I thought he was crazy about you. He talks to you much more than he does to me."

"That's because we've become closer friends, Tessa. Besides, you don't talk very much these days..." she smiled. "So, do you like him?"

Did I? I couldn't answer that question right then. I just knew I felt sorry for Lindsay's necessity to make me feel better.

"Lindsay... I am sorry, but I am really not in the mood to go on a date."

"Oh. I thought you were finally starting to get over Luke. And David looks like he would be very good at other things apart from law... you know? And he is very willing to..." she joked.

I laughed at the situation.

"Lindsay. Why do you think you're going to bring me up by talking about sex? It's not Luke, nor David, it's just that I'm not in the mood. Okay?"

"And which mood are you in exactly, Tess? You've been acting like a zombie for over a month now. That's not you. We're working to try to find a solution to this, but maybe, probably, we won't; at least not anytime soon. And what about you? What are you doing meanwhile? Spending your time, hidden between bookshelves and blankets? When are you planning to live again?"

My mind shouted "That's enough! You don't fucking understand it!", but my body didn't move. The only things that were active in it apart from my angry brain were my lachrymal glands, which began to water my eyes as if to contradict my mind and say "You're right" to Lindsay.

David came back with a tray full of chocolaty pleasure, and I reckoned I probably would have fancied him like mad any other time.

"I'm going back to Worcester. I think I'm going to be sick." I said.

"Hey." he said, and he grabbed my wrist and looked directly into my reddened eyes. I hadn't realized before that he looked at me as if I was beautiful as ever, apparently not noticing my dark circles, pale and harsh skin, and bitten lips. "Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just that..."

I couldn't even think of what to say, because I had asked the same question to myself too many times over the last weeks: Was something wrong with me? I finally answered:

"I need some rest."

"Yeah, you look like you could use years of sleep."

Oh, so he had noticed my dark circles. I smiled weakly. He smiled back. I almost blushed, but blood didn't make it to my cheeks. He freed my wrist and said:

"Before you go, I need to tell you something."

What did you think of this chapter? Did you like that David is back? Do you think that Tessa should go on a date with him? Let me know in the comments! I am entering the Wattys 2016, so, if you enjoyed it, please don't forget to vote :)

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