It's 9:30am and apart from the café staff, I am one of five people in the café. I'm sitting in one of the comfy booth spots by the window, allowing the early morning sun to drift through and fall onto the light smattering of winter-faded freckles that dust the bridge of my nose. Before me lies a newspaper. The café, Tilbury's, always purchases actual paper newspapers and although I sometimes find it quiet cumbersome to wrestle with the large perpetually crinkled pages, I do like to read The Astoria Times before I go to school.

Also, I'm kind of a data stinge.

So I'm a little bit reluctant to use my own mobile data to access the news unless it's, like, an actual emergency.

I've been here for maybe fifteen minutes and I am yet to order anything. The waitress hovers near my table, pen and notepad in hand, unsure of whether or not I am eating alone but I wave away her advances with a contrived smile. I got here fifteen minutes ago because I wanted this table, this window seat. I wanted to be in control. I wanted everything to be perfect.

Why, oh why, did I think this was a good idea? Honestly, the rational part of me tells me that I'm overreacting. Staring at the ornate grandfather clock against the olive-toned wall, I can see that it is only 27 seconds past 9:30. If he walks in the door right now, Rafe will only be 32 seconds late. But another part of me screams that he will not show up but rather show me up. Ghost me. Of course that would happen to me. I mean, seriously, what would Rich Boy Archer want with me anyway? It's way more probable that he'd like a Kiki-esque girl. Effortlessly cool, clever, beautiful and witty. I start to unravel this thought. Maybe the reason he even acted like he wanted to meet me is because I acted so much like Kiki that I became her, in a way. This thought makes me sad. Will anybody ever love me for who I am?

Woah. That tangent got deep real fast. I shake my head, clearing away such notions. It's too early. I'm not about to get all depresso when I haven't even had my first espresso yet and it is this terrible little pun that stirs me from my dark thoughts. Noah tells me that I have a habit of inadvertently letting my motions play out on my face and as a waitress bustles past me once again, I attempt to erase any signs of mirth that may have crept into my face as a result of that little joke. Whatever. I should leave now anyway. I look weird enough sitting here by myself, let alone laughing at some odd inward joke.

I'm literally about to go over to the counter to just get a takeaway spiced soy chai latte and leave when the small bell over the door tinkles quietly, signalling the arrival of a new customer. Rafe. I surreptitiously glance at the clock. Ha. Of course. It's actually 58 seconds past 9:30. Then I look back at Rafe. Okay, if I was a whistling kinda flirty girl, I'd whistle (but my façade doesn't go that far). He looks like he just stepped out of an Abercrombie ad. Or inadvertently strolled off the Armani runway. He's wearing a dark jacket (probably from Savile Row) that he takes off and drapes lazily across his shoulder, revealing a navy blue cable knit sweater. It's nearly the same colour as my darkly coloured hooded cape that lies beside me on the booth seat.

How quaint. We're matching.

"Good morning", he says, and he stares at my glasses. I was so tired this morning that I felt as if my contact lenses would just fall out, so I kicked the morning ritual of poking about my eyeballs and just put on my glasses instead.

Another night, another nightmare.

The only time I ever dream is when I am awake.

I don't think Rafe's ever seen me in them before. MadeLucky most certainly have. They like to comment on how intellectual (cough, "nerdy") I look with them on. I mutter an awkward reply before remembering that I have a reputation that I need to uphold.

"Sooooo..." I draw out the word, adopting a bored expression as I readjust my headband and stand. "What do you want me to get you?" Rafe raises an eyebrow.

"Well, hey." He says, as he sweeps off his jacket and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. "What can you give me?" A slow grin spreads across his face. Ugh, seriously? Is he one of those boys? The ones who seem to have a limitless supply of sexual innuendos and double entendres? Of course he is. I mean, it's no wonder girls fawn over him. I've seen them on the campus, exchanging glances and flirtatious smiles at him while he winks back. He's a total player. I don't think he ever seriously dates anybody. I've been here nearly three months now and I've seen him with five different girls. Five. All rich girl old money types obviously, but he's never with them for more than a fortnight. Apparently, he's a serial heartbreaker and once he, uh, beds these girls, that gorgeous front of a personality slips away to be replaced with his real douchy interior. But any girl stupid enough to fall for him definitely had it coming. Okay. I mean, I totally see what they're seeing, and yeah, maybe that chill, confident personality is also pretty hot, but really? Rich Boy Archer is a total jerk.

Regardless of all that, I could still feel my cheeks warming at his insinuation. "Coffee!" I snap. "How do you like your coffee?" Rafe pretends to ponder the question for a few seconds and I just know he has a witty comeback already lined up.

"Dark, bitter and too hot for you." He quips, smirking.

Okay. I've gotta admit it. That was smooth. Is this to get back at my Oscar Wilde rejoinder a few weeks ago? I arch an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed, and turn my back on him, stalking to the counter. In the few minutes that we've been at the café, other customers have entered and there is now a short line. As I wait, I attempt to stop my mind flitting from one worry to the next; I attempt to suppress all thoughts of schoolwork, homework, actual work. Try to breathe. It's funny, the reason I drive myself to distraction is to forget my real problems. The ceaseless torture my mind subjects me to every night. Gazing about the store, I attempt to feign a look of intrigue in the immaculate succulent plants nestled in white geometric pots that line the tables, pretend to be awed by the fairy lights that entangle themselves around the room, like a sweeping vine. But my mind is elsewhere. I give in and the memories of my nightmare engulf me.

It's a reoccurring dream. Sometimes, it's not so bad and the broken fragments of the nightmare are swept away, forgotten in the few seconds after I snap my eyes open. Last night, however, was not a good night. It started same as always. After drifting in and out of a fractured sleep, I found myself on the sandy edge of the ocean. I was in Reeves. Sky scraping pine trees surrounded me, shielded me from the rest of the world, the wind bringing me snatches of a light forest perfume that ensnared itself within the musky earthy scent of petrichor and the saltiness of the sea spray that whipped at my naked body. In my nightmares, it's always night time. But the darkness feels emptier than usual. Lost in the blue tipped world of my dream, with only the crashing waves and surging current for company, everything feels so so dark. As if all the brightness had been drained from the world, replaced by only melancholy. Glancing down, I see clothes. Neatly folded. On the shore. An eddy of cold water swirls towards the pile, laps impatiently at the material and threatens to take it away. And I know what happens next. Footprints in the sand, leading right to the water's edge before I am in the ocean, restless waves lapping at my ankles. The howling wind snatches at my hair, at my tears, throwing them into the water. And I close my eyes. Swim. The cold envelops my body, stroking me with its deadly embrace. Swim. I breathe, and I let the harsh air force it's way down my throat. Swim. Stroke after stroke, kick after kick. And suddenly it is too much. It is not the difficulty of my muscles aching, burning, but rather, life per se. Suddenly, I give in. Let the waves sweep me under. I always hold my breath, even though I know what's coming. Human instinct makes us do it. Even when we want to die, our bodies, our minds, force us to maintain a sense of self-preservation. The darkness pushes me down. Down. I watch as my hair billows around me, my fingers trail uselessly in the water. Grasping at what? Nobody ever saves me. I want to shut my eyes. Let it finish. No. I am forced to watch. A lonely trail of bubbles escapes from me. My last breath. The little orbs of air seek the surface, lazily drifting. Hansel-and-Gretel-esque, they seem to beckon me. Plead with me to keep fighting. No. it is too late anyway. I let my eyes follow the last bubble. Watch as it disappears into the surface and the last thing I see before I die is the looming emptiness of the universe. It awaits me. It welcomes me.

Snap. Woah. I blink suddenly, rushing back to reality, as somebody's immaculately manicured fingers click in front of my face.

"Hello?" A girl with olive skin, short curly dark hair, and a name tag that says Maria, is talking to me. "Chica, have you decided what you would like to order?" How long did I zone out for? Thankfully, the girl doesn't look too concerned. I hope Rafe didn't notice. A quick glance at him confirms that I am in the clear. He's engrossed by his phone, tapping away at the screen and he's actually smiling. I wonder who he's talking to... probably some girl. Whatever.

"Could I please have a, uh, spiced soy chai latte please?" I deliberate over Rafe's coffee for a few seconds. "And a long black, strong." The remnants of that nightmare are flickering in my mind again. I blink hard, as if to shoo away such disturbing thoughts. The barista impatiently taps her pen against her notepad and I have an idea. "Takeaway. Both large. The chai for Eva and the long black for ... Rich Boy Archer." Maria gives me a vaguely quizzical look but she shrugs. She's a barista. I'm betting she deals with millennials a million times more ~quirky than I am, every day. After I pay, she tears out a page in her notepad, clipping it to the magnetised front of the coffee machine, the last order in a long line. I decide to return back to the table while we wait for our coffees.

I amble back to the booth and, as I sit, Rafe puts his phone away, tucking it into his pocket. Oh. A gentleman, is he? My stomach is churning, as my mind dips in and out of that haunting dream. I really don't feel like having breakfast or brunch or whatever and I tell him so. Rafe shrugs, unconcerned and tells me he wasn't hungry anyway. This first meet up isn't a serious study session anyway. Just to organise a few things and prepare, I guess.

I pull out a notebook from my satchel, and a Muji gel pen. Whenever I start to feel very stressed and panicky, I'll buy a new one. A different colour, or a different thickness. It's become a kind of routine for me. Also. Stress shopping by buying a singular pen at Muji doesn't really kill my bank account or suck my wallet dry, so I'm okay with it. Using a black pen I underline Avery's name. I'd already written it out in elaborate cursive, and scrawled the intention of the task below it:

The purpose of this assignment is to compel students to think through what skills, mindsets, work habits, and ethics their selected influential historical figure needed in order to be successful in their life's endeavours.

I read out the sentence to Rafe as I sketch out an anchor on the page, trying to avoid eye contact with him. Seriously, what a disgusting concept. A group presentation. Yuck. Can't truly rely on anyone but yourself. I fall back into my thoughts as I mindlessly parrot out the sentence and shade in the anchor. When I raise my gaze to meet his, I'm surprised by how intently he is staring at me. But then he blinks and I realise he's just looking at the page. "Okay, so I think we should start collecting resources. We still have a few more weeks until our library ban is over, right? But I'm sure that the school library has tonnes of books in Avery." I'm slowly working on overcoming my fear of crowds. Without Noah around, I've started adapting to being in unfamiliar environments by myself. Flipping back through my workbook, I continue. "I've already started planning out the outline for our oral presentation and I've compiled a list of important-" Rafe interrupts me.

"Woah. Hey. Stop. What are you doing? This is supposed to be a group assignment. I know all about your control freak ways and let me tell you this right now. You are not going to dictate our entire project." I want to smile at the word dictate, cos it's an oral presentation, but I don't think he meant it as a joke.

Okay, fine. Maybe I am a little bit of a control freak, perhaps a pedant even. But I prefer the word perfectionist. And anyways, it is such a bad thing to want everything to be in order? My life, unlike Rafe's, is quite difficult sometimes. Is it so wrong to try to enact control on the little things within my grasp? He does have a point though. The teacher will know if the both of us haven't equally contributed, and I'll -um- we'll both fail this thing.

"Fine." I huff.

"What?" Rafe teases. "No witty rejoinder?" Oh I had that coming for me. Before I can announce my witty rejoinder (honestly though, I'm still thinking of a clever retort), I'm interrupted by Maria, the barista, hollering.

"Two coffees. Eva. Rich Boy Archer." Rafe looks mildly impressed with me, and I sweep up my book to put it in my bag, folding the newspaper closed and inadvertently scattering my pens to the floor. This happens to me so frequently it's not fair. Archer sighs as if to say that I'm hopeless -which, I guess I am a bit- and he helps to pick up my stationery. Then we're pushing our chairs in, I'm putting my coat on and we're at the counter. As Rafe collects the coffees, I look back at our table, feeling as if I'm forgetting something. I don't think I put that black pen back into my bag? The black ones are the hardest to get. During the school year, students are always purchasing them, and they're almost always out of stock. Even on the online website. After frowning in the direction of our table for a few seconds, I turn to tell Rafe that I'm just going to go and double check when he pushes not only my coffee into my hand but also the aforementioned gel pen. We walk out the door and start to part ways when I remember something.

"Wait. Do you want my number or something?" I call after him. These sleepless nights are messing with my head. I feel perpetually disorganised. We should have exchanged numbers at the start of our little meet up, not in the middle of the street.

"You call me, Evangeline." Rafe replies, giving me a flirty salute before he turns away and walks off without another glance. He's too far away to hear my sputtered protests that It's Just Eva! and that I don't actually have his number. Running a hand through my hair, I sigh and down a gulp of my spiced chai latte. Then I see it. Beside the thick cursive of the barista, somebody has tacked 'ngeline' to the end of 'Eva' in a thinner black scrawl. And under that is a string of numbers. A phone number. I shake my head, unable to keep myself from grinning.

That boy.