"Breathe."

The soothing voice made me want to make an effort to do as told. I had a pretty good idea who he was, though I wished he hadn't noticed me now. Not like this: a shattered ball of mess tossed on the ground. I'd give anything for the ground to open up and suck me in right now.

"It's okay, just breathe deep and slow. You can do this," he encouraged. "Could you hold up your head, please?"

He was so polite and soft-spoken that I tried to force myself to inhale just to humor him. But my lungs were tight and a pathetic wheeze came out instead.

"Just look at me, please?" he pleaded. "You'll be fine, I promise."

Promise? Why did he even bother? He didn't know me. Why didn't he just leave and let me patch up my broken pride?

"Please," he repeated.

With difficulty, I inched my head up to meet the royal blue shirt that covered a manly, well-shaped torso. I was scared and embarrassed to look into his face, yet seeing him from this close was enough motivation to snap out of it.

I urged my tense neck to move my head up. Then our eyes locked and I froze again, unblinking.

I stared into his warm cinnamon-colored irises, fighting to catch my breath. His eyes were beautiful, sincere, accentuated by dark lashes and a tiny beauty spot on his right cheekbone. I couldn't focus on anything else. The world was fading around the edges.

"You need to breathe." He drew in a breath through his nose, and then let it out, instructing me to do the same. He was on his knees, his eyebrows creased. Concerned? For a second, he looked up, stroking his forehead, then he asked, "do you like ice cream?"

I gaped at him, unable to make sense of his words. Ice cream? What kind of a question was that? Did I hear him wrong?  

"This is extremely important, please, let me try again." He scratched his eyebrow thoughtfully. "Barbie dolls? Cotton candy? Rainbows? Unicorns? Girls like chocolate, too, right?"

There was a profound look on his face, as if his life depended on the answer.

Despite everything, picturing the things he'd mentioned nearly made my lips curve.

"Uhh, w—what?" My extinguished voice came back, ragged and breezy.

His cinnamon eyes crinkled up at the corners. "I'm sorry, I had to think of something."

"What're you—" I gulped and took in a quick breath. "—talking about?"

"I was trying to distract you from a panic attack. I guess it worked, didn't it?" A smile touched his eyes as he explained his intention.

Surprised, I realized that my breathing was getting easier, and the pain in my chest was fading. I was worn-down and my limbs were shaky, but I felt better than a few minutes ago. I let my arms sag down on my thighs and inhaled deeply. It really worked!

"May I help you up?" He lifted his arm in a deliberately slow motion, offering me his hand.

I blinked.

His hand was hanging in the air, waiting for me to take it. I wasn't sure if I could trust my legs to hold my body up just yet, but it felt… off that he wanted to give me his hand. Somehow, undeserved. It felt like I might spoil it. After all, if I was an abomination that went against fate, I could drain his life-force with my touch.

"Are you okay?" His smile faltered. His outstretched arm started to dip down and a speck of alarm prickled my stomach. 

Quickly, I nodded my head and let my hand sail into his. I was being selfish again.

My fingers must've been frigid, because his hand was warm like the sun. It was like his warmth penetrated my skin, filtered through my blood, and my tension simmered down. I sighed, latching on his solid arm.

Like teaching a toddler how to walk, he supported my weight with his extended elbow, leaving a comfortable space between us. He aided me to my bench —he knew I sat here?— his pace matching my vacillating steps. The air flowed into my lungs once more when he sat me down carefully.

Definitely getting better.

"I'll be right back in a minute." He pointed his thumb and jogged gracefully back to the spot where he was sitting.

Pulling the wipes from my purse, I attempted to clean up the shambles that was, well, me. I wiped up my face and hands as quickly as possible, trying not to imagine how I looked after making a spectacle out of myself.

I watched as Clark leaned down, picked up his book, and stuffed his blanket into his black backpack. He strode back toward me, the glaring sunlight reflecting on his chocolate hair, caressing his handsome face in ways unimaginable.  

"May I?" He indicated to the empty spot next to me.

"Sure."

"Thank you."

My pulse quickened. Was I too eager, or did he really want to sit next to me?

He sat on the edge of the bench, unzipped his backpack, and brought out a small water bottle.

"Please, drink. It helps." He opened the plastic cap and angled a little closer, his earnest eyes fixed on mine. "It's germ-free, I promise, I didn't touch it."

I uttered an awkward chuckle and took the bottle from him. "Thank you."

As soon as I brought the bottle to my lips, I realized I was parched. My mouth was so dry that I guzzled half of it at once. I probably looked like Captain Jack Sparrow drinking his rum.

Foolishly I handed him the bottle after I'd poured my germs into it. But he simply took it back, put the lid back on, and placed it on the center of the bench between us, a smile resting softly on his lips.  

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

Only inches away, his smile was glamorous to look at. My cheeks warmed and I looked away, adjusting my hair behind my ears, just to remember I still had the pigtails nice and tight. Dammit!

Staring down at my clasped hands, I drew in more air, trying to slow down my heart. My stomach was in knots, nervous, but a new kind of nervous. The silence was growing awkward and I had no idea what to say or do. Should I speak? But what would I tell him? Should I grab my stuff and leave? That would be rude after he'd bothered to help me, wouldn't it? Should I stay, then? I sure wanted to, but did he? Why didn't he leave yet? Not that I wanted him to leave, but he was still here for some reason. And just to be honest with myself, his presence was too... easy. Too comforting. And so, very welcomed.

Stealing a side glance, I saw him gazing at the meadow, the breeze tickling his hair, his perfectly thin lips permanently curved up. He looked like he was actually enjoying his time.

As if he sensed my stare, he turned to me.

"Akram Sadiq," he said, extending his hand.

I was distracted by the way he pronounced the words that it took me a second to realize it was his name. My fingers trembled when our hands touched again. It felt more like a caress than a simple handshake. His penetrating warmth seemed to flow from his fingers to my face. I blushed, retracting my hand.

I cleared my throat. "Melody."

His eyebrows shot up, his face glowing. "Melody Fair." 

"Umm, no, it's… Melody Summer." My eyes narrowed. I had no idea what he meant, but it seemed significant to him. His eyes brightened up and it nudged my curiosity. What did that mean? Should I ask him? Probably not. Would I ever know one day?

"Nice to meet you, Melody," he murmured. The way he'd said my name sounded like a melody by itself; melodic, like silver chimes.

"Nice to meet you, too." 

That was a shameless understatement. It was more than nice. If not for the embarrassing prelude. But it didn't matter. He'd forget about me by tomorrow, and I'd go back to watching him from behind the espresso machine, and I'd continue to survive just like I'd done before today.

The thought brought a chilly heaviness in my heart. Why did it feel so hard to pretend that today had never happened? It shouldn't be that difficult, should it?

I stared at the meadow, letting the breeze cool down my face, while a silent war ignited inside me. There were two opposing forces, like ebb and flow, pulling me in two different directions.

On one hand, I was aware of the attraction. I knew I had a thing for him, for months. A one-sided, irrational crush. But now that he was close, he became more… touchable. More real. If I could sit with him now, shake his hand, feel his warmth, speak to him, it meant that, one day, he could just… not be here anymore. He'd simply disappear, go on with his life, and I'd be the only loser in that scenario. My chest tightened to consider that. 

On the other hand, this meeting was a run of luck. Like I'd suddenly hit the jackpot. I was having a blast to know my intuition was right. He was good. Probably too good. He'd helped me, and sort of salvaged my pride. If not from public humiliation, then from the boy's mother who'd wanted to call the police for me. And he hadn't left yet, goodness knew why, but his closeness brought a bunch of good vibes that I'd never experienced with anyone in my life. Except Ash, maybe. 

Come on, Melody, don't fool yourself, you don't really know him, a wretched voice in my brain told me.

But I want to know him! My heart defied.

Yes! I wanted to know him so badly, and this was possibly my only chance.

I fidgeted on the bench, wringing my fingers as I made my decision. My new goal. I decided to take the chance, enjoy the moment while I could. I'd follow my selfish heart and let whatever happened happen.

Sucking in a deep breath, I summoned my leftover courage, and turned toward him… Akram. What a name!

His eyes were closed, his chin slightly pointing up. His chest rose and fell, breathing deep and slow, I noted. Did that mean he was anxious? About what? I wondered what he was thinking. He looked completely wrapped up inside his own mind as he inhaled and exhaled, his book nestling between his hands, teasing me.

It was impossible for me not to pick up the title: Piano: The Making of a Steinway Concert Grand.

Gawking at the book cover, a eureka moment hit me. All the times I'd watched him doing his magical 'workouts' suddenly fell into place.

"Interesting book," I initiated eagerly.

His eyes fluttered open, beaming at me. "Absolutely. Do you like piano music?"

"Who doesn't?" I jumped to the main conclusion, "do you play?"

"Since I was seven," he nodded, rotating in place to face me. "Music is my life, and my future career, I hope."

My eyebrows flew up. "You're studying music?"

"I'm in Juilliard." He pinched his lips for an instant. "Majoring in Piano and trying not to fall behind." He chuckled, a husky, refreshing sound.

"Juilliard. Wow!" I knew it! I knew there was something exceptional about him. He was talented. A gifted artist. "How's it like?"

"Not easy." He puffed, shaking his head. "Above school hours, I have to practice at least three hours daily. I play part-time too, at a jazz club nearby." He motioned with his hand and let his fingers glide through his thick hair.

"You're in Juilliard and you have to work?" I asked, tearing my eyes from his ruffled hair. Everybody knew Juilliard was expensive. It's either he'd won a scholarship or he was both talented and wealthy.

"I don't have to, but I wanted to, for a couple of reasons. First, I get extra credit." He tilted his head and smirked, then his eyebrows pulled into a tiny frown. "Second, because… People say music doesn't pay the bills." He pursed his lips. "I wanted to prove I can support myself doing what I love."

"That's really nice."

It was admirable that he didn't like to have it easy like a typical rich kid. He earned respect points for that.

"Um, Sorry. What's your name again?" I just wanted to hear the sound of it coming from him.

"Akram," he reiterated, cute lines appearing at the sides of his mouth.

It was exquisite how he pronounced his name. He didn't have a particular accent, but he rolled the R in quite an exotic way.

"Unusual name," I noted.

He chuckled, scratching his brow. "Yeah, it's Arabic. I always say I'm three-quarters Egyptian."

"Really? You don't look Arabian," I blurted out, immediately regretting my stupid comment.

"And... how does Arabian look like?" He narrowed his eyes, his tone suddenly guarded.

I tensed. I didn't want to mess up so soon and drive him away.

"I'm… I'm sorry, I just didn't expect... You don't have..." I waved my hand around my chin. He was clean-shaven.

"Oh, actually, the bushy beard is optional," he explained, his voice strained. "So are the big guns or the camel riding. Depends on what channels you prefer watching." There was humor in his words, but his lips were tight.

My cheeks had to be crimson red. "I—I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be rude... I just, uh, don't have many friends so I'm mostly in the dark, social-wise."

"You're not from here?" His face relaxed and a sympathetic look formed in his eyes.

"No. I mean... yes I'm from here, but it's just, uh, difficult to get along with people."

I wasn't a hundred percent sure I was from here, but he didn't need to know about my identity issues.

"I guess we're in the same boat." He uttered a silver-chime laugh that put me back at ease. "I'm here mainly to study. I don't really have any friends."

"So... you've been living in Egypt before you came?" I asked, my stomach twitching with excitement. I'd been fascinated by Egyptian history since I was in school. He deserved extra points for that.

"Actually, I was born and raised in Jackson, New Jersey. My father was born in Egypt and my mom was born in the States, but her father was Egyptian too, so... We're kind of an interesting blend." His eyes softened as he mentioned his parents, bringing out the earthy color of his irises.

"How about you?" He asked, turning the table. "Are you in college?"

I stiffened up. I wasn't ready for my turn. What now? Was I supposed to tell him about my abysmally bad luck? My failure to get accepted anywhere? My breakdown when I'd turned eighteen and how I'd ended up in a homeless shelter?

Hi. I'm Melody Summer: homeless, slash, college rejectee. What a great introduction to sum up my life! No. Not a chance.

"No." I shook my head, face down. "I graduated last year, but… currently I'm taking a break to… regroup."

"Oh," he muttered.

I glanced up to watch his reaction. His expression was indecipherable, his smooth lips twitched as if he was going to say something else, ask about my 'break', probably. Then he changed his mind and drew them into a soft line. I was grateful he didn't press it.

I looked away, hiding my face in shame. My fingers flew to tuck my hair behind my ears and bumped into the shoddy pigtails again. I groaned internally.

"How are you feeling?" His gentle voice snapped me out of my near-moping experience.

"Much better, thank you." I smiled genuinely.

"Does this happen to you a lot?" He asked softly, pointing in the direction of my former fiasco.

"Not really. It's just... I can't bear to watch a child crying," I admitted.

It'd happened occasionally, though, since I was thirteen, but I refused to dwell on the incident that led to these mishaps. I wanted the memory to burn in the depth of hell.

There was a soft wrinkle between his eyebrows. "I understand."

He did? Did he have a weakness for crying children? Or was he familiar with emotional breakdowns?

"My mother used to have anxiety attacks when I was a kid." His eyes grew tender, a melted hazel-brown. "My little sister used to cry a lot. She kept us up all night and it got really difficult for mom, until she grew out of it."

"You have a little sister?!" My heart swelled to listen to him talk about his family.

"Jan's ten years old." His face shined. "She's my special princess. I miss her like heaven when I'm here."

"That's so sweet," I cooed. It warmed my heart how he expressed his feelings—so pure and caring—about his sister to a complete stranger. I owed his mother a lot of respect and gratitude, too. She was the reason he didn't think I was a mentally deranged person. "You must feel lucky to have them."

"I am." He bowed his head once. "I'm sure your family's great, too."

I stiffened again, the blood draining from my face.

Why? Why did he have to hit all the sore spots?

I swallowed, trying my best not to drive him off with unnecessary details. "I—lost them a long time ago."

His face fell, a train of mixed emotions running across his features. "I'm so sorry."

I shrugged, putting up a calm facade. "It's okay."

He gazed at me for a while, his face so distressed that it made me feel bad for him.

"I'm really fine," I lied, forcing a smile just to cheer him up.

Akram exhaled audibly and cleared his throat.

"Okay, this will sound weird, but—" He stroked his hairline, nervous, I guessed. "Would you mind having a new friend? If it's okay to ask?" His intense gaze focused on my face, waiting.

I blinked a few times, the gears in my head cackling randomly.

Why on earth would he want to be friends with me? Not that I hated the idea but… there was nothing special about me. I had nothing to offer him, except, maybe, making his coffee, which I was not the best at. Someone like him could easily have much better friends; smarter, classier, more interesting than me. So, why did he even bother? Was he just being nice? Or was it good ol' pity again? Was it pity for my stupid breakdown in public? Or was it the 'I lost my family' bit?

My jaws clenched.

"Why?" I snapped a little.

"I'm sorry, what?"

I folded my arms across my chest. "Why do you want to be friends with me?"

His features quivered slightly, but his eyes intensified. "Because I haven't met a better and kinder person… to be friends with."

"You should go out more." I cracked up, laughing. He was being nice, then. Too, incredibly nice. 

"That's what my mother tells me." His face glowed with his own laughter, I'd never seen anything so splendid. "Friends, then?"

He extended his graceful, pianist hand one more time.

"Friends," I assured myself. My heart was beating fast, anticipating his penetrating warmth as we shook hands for the second time.

How could I refuse his friendship, after I'd been willing to give my right arm just to have a glimpse of him? I liked the idea of Friendship. Friendship was safe. A happy medium. I could live with that. My issues and my stupid brain had to wait.