Mornings have always treated me right, no matter how much of a commotion I cause between falling off my single mattress bed and onto the hardwood door, and my unreal sprint to Roosters to get a dose of my staple energiser.

It's a usually a cakewalk thereafter, but I'm not sure that's exactly the case today.

The Environmental Sciences class is just as crowded as my fourth birthday party, with me and a buzz cut nerd comprising of an entire row. There's some two or three people around, but I don't bother looking- my head resting on one of my elbows while I scroll through my phone under the covers of the graffitied desk. To be precise, scroll past the website of Australian Princess, the coveted beauty pageant that begins exactly in a month from today. The page layout is obnoxiously pink, which gives a taste of what's in store, but my attention is gauged by the audition form popping up on the illuminated screen and the instructions below. 'Along with a mandatory professional portfolio, aspirants need to send in a two minute video of them speaking on a socioeconomic current affair and their stance on the same.'

Okay, this doesn't sound so bad. I am unaware of what possesses me then, but I find myself searching for the venue where in the course of the pageant will be held, and a few enthusiastic localities giveaway the location through their series of Instagram posts. It is barely a thirty minute drive from the university, but with the haywire schedule of the buses, it might as well somehow take me two hours to reach the place. An exasperated sigh escapes my lips, and the document from News 11 that's still sitting in my mailbox comes out howling at me from one of the unclosed tabs, as I mull over the situation. Even though, seated right under the fans, I can't help but feel dizzy, and it must've been apparent because I feel a poke on my shoulder followed by a 'you don't look good' in a husky voice.

Writhed out of my stance, I nearly drop my phone, but somehow the fall of my striped Sun dress catches onto the device within time. I resist the strong urge to curse at whoever's behind, and I'm more than glad with the decision when the same ruffled brown hair, twinkling eyes, and a worried smile find me on the other side. I'm left wordless, staring at Nolan all blank until I realise he'd been saying something. "Yeah. yeah, I'm okay," I nearly bite my tongue whilst treading past the stutter, wondering what's suddenly got into me. It's not our first meeting by any case, and we successfully broke the ice during the little walk to the park, what with me sharing my life altering blunder and everything.

"You're sure?" He chuckles, a deep contrast to the frown creased on his forehead.

I round it up to a lack of sleep, since Kiara nearly blew up the apartment last night, over these blurred photos of Sam and some strawberry blonde at yet another frat house party. Apparently, it was a celebration of this one tower getting a clean chit from the cops, and because a lot of them are still very much under radar, they kept the population limited to just the members. I'd advise her to join in with them if blasting Ariana Grande on loop at two in the night, was going to be the case every time her boyfriend loses a game of beer pong to a girl, but I also know how her Dad would disown her if he found out. He's already got her banned from even straying near the fraternity till this case comes to a proper conclusion. "You zone out a lot, y'know?" He snaps his fingers, briefly squinting his eyes as a teasing smirk works it's way over his lips.

"Sorry," I sheepishly admit, gathering my notes in my tote bag when I realise the professor is long gone and the halls are bustling with chatter. "I'm still in a dilemma over the job, so it's difficult to concentrate." My confession makes his breezy self up and about, his stubble shadowed face suddenly lit up, and for a reason I can't seem to understand.

"Well, if you're really struggling to come to a decision, I can think of something that might help. My Dad's forcing me to hike up this pageant place and take notes from all the press people who're going to be there today. Just the thought is unbearable, so if I had some company, I guess it wouldn't be so bad," he shrugs, looking at me all pleadingly- the sloppy Pokemon caricatures on his notepad out front weakening my walls. Walls that are meant to keep a six feet distance between me and guys with a 'reputation' around the campus. Come on, did you really think I wouldn't get a thesis on Nolan Fergesen from my browser for a best friend, once she got a peek at this coffee stain on my shorts last night. "There's also this great coffee place near by, and there caramel macchiato is to die for."

I almost flinch, doubting if he's got some trick to do this and shock the living day lights out of me every damn time. He's still waiting on an answer, and while the rational side of my brain doesn't agree to it, there's this other laid back one, that reminds me how I am sick of the sweltering bus seats and that he did go through the trouble of getting me my latte- and most importantly, keeping it steamy until all the way to my apartment. "No doubt, I'm really caught in a fix over this job offer... and I also wouldn't mind some company," I slip in the last bit in a haste, grabbing onto my bag and my phone, well aware of the reddening of my cheeks in the faint sunlight seeping past the gaps in the window grilles.

I shoot a quick text to Kiara, informing that I wouldn't be able to join her for Psychology, or else she wouldn't for her life, let someone take the seat beside her. Although, nearly everyone's got the message now- loud and squeaky, as is Kiara Salvador- with eight months of the year on the verge of getting completed. All but the muddy blonde quarterback Jason Dillheany, who's either too slow to grasp or he's got a thing for my crazy girl. If Sam wasn't in the picture, I'd happily opt out of the subject to get them together, but unfortunately, not the case.

Nolan and I hike across university towers, the air around us silent until there's a jingle. I watch him pull out stray silver keys from his blue wash jeans, guiding us out of the university building and to the parking lot behind. I can't help but realise I've hardly ever come to this place in the last three years.

Most of it's maintained, leaving a patch of overgrown hedges behind the fences, slumping down on the BMWs, Audis, and Challengers standing next to each other, almost like that group of rich kids who've got the centre table in the canteen, looking down on anyone and everyone around. I bet Nolan's got a variant of one these as well, but my guess and pick comes to a screeching halt when he stops by a red and black bullet, stretching his arms to secure the bag pack across his broad shoulders. If it weren't for the shades and the beaming light, he would've definitely caught me gawking, but that's not even my worry right now. Sure, I've seen these heavy bullets here and there, in magazines and movies and so on, but in person, it seems a lot scarier for some reason.

"Silence doesn't suit you, blabbing does," Nolan pulls me out of my thoughts, already seated and onto fixing his awry hair in the rearview mirror. Hundred bucks says they'll just end up looking more messy than before. "I know it looks dangerous, but I'm way within the speed limit at all times, and I love this thing way too much to be reckless with it."

His words are convincing, and to a level that's got me questioning a lot of things. But with the metallic shine and the absence of even the tiniest scratch on the surface, I believe him. "Alright," I nod, only to watch him flash that grin from last night, which doesn't come so easy from what I get and what I've heard. He hands me a helmet and while I struggle to hop on, the fears fade away as soon as he guides one of my hands to his bicep. Just the action gets me all jittery and my immediate instinct is to pull it back- until the engine comes to life and the sudden push ends up with my other palm grabbing onto him as well.

The beginning's a little bumpy, but as we're out on the road, it doesn't faze me out so much. Although the adrenaline's intact, and when it gets coupled with my pounding heart, it brings out this wave of confidence, only one beer me can achieve. "You're actually a really good driver." My enunciation's weak under the zapping wind, but I think he gets it.

He breathes out a laugh. "Try telling my girlfriend that."

***

Twenty minutes into the drive and we're onto the wide roads of Birmingham Street, blazing past skyscrapers and glass buildings adorned on both sides. One of the oldest and the most prim and posh area of Sydney, it's no surprise that the pageant's chosen to be held over here, and in most probability, in one of these lavish hotels placed together in a row.

My hunch proves right when Nolan slows down next to a charcoal grey building, which even though looks ancient in design, is nothing less than grand in every other aspect. I also figure the valet by a podium out front wouldn't be too ecstatic about our ride, but they're in fact on their toes when Nolan gets rid of his aviators, guiding him to a specific parking spot, that's got actual velvet red belts marking its boundaries. I'm surprised and it's visible- more so when we're both handed a VIP pass before entering the multi-storeyed building. "Seems like you're kind of a big deal, here?" I lightly chuckle, examining the pass and stuffing it in a corner of my tote bag.

"My Dad's a big deal, so the rest just comes along. Doesn't even matter whether I like it or not."

The lazed tone you can easily get used to, is now bittersweet, and I've obviously struck a chord with the mention. Not that I'm happy about it, but it sure is intriguing to observe these little changes in his mannerisms with a shift in mood; hunched shoulders are now stiff, easy treading's turning into power walking, and jaw's slightly clenched as his expressions turn stoic. "So, this is the place, huh?" I attempt a change in subject, and it seems to bode well as he nods and looks around for himself.

Classy yet elegant- a permanent tag stuck to the top tiered society, seems to be the unbeatable mantra over here as well. The lobby's sticking to a colour palette of rose gold and white, with the theme extending to the cashmere carpet, silk drapes, Crystal chandeliers, bunched up carnation lilies, and stuffy couches in a secluded corner. The air seems to be diffused with a hint of lavender and so does the perfume of the female staff, who're all decked up, giving a hint that their maroon lipstick alone costs more than my entire makeup. One of them takes a look at our passes and guides us out to the pool area, seating us on bamboo chairs and handing a coconut mock-tail each.

"Is the press having an after party here?" I'm half kidding, half muddled in confusion as a few reporters rally up on the other side, while the camera personnel takes turns adjusting the equipment to the direction of the Sun and the backdrop of an aqua glass on one of the walls, with a faux water fall running down the translucent surface.

"Not exactly, but having a lineup of NBC actress pose for the cover of their monthly issues, will at least get them a black out worth of pot," he laboriously sighs, doing little to hide the sarcasm.

I then realise that they're not from news networks, but from magazines that people like you and me pick up on a hot summer, probably to fan ourselves while we wait in line to get an ice slurpee. Exactly the reason why I never swayed to the glitz and glamour section of journalism, no matter how lucrative that world is. The perks are great, work hours minimal, and all the travelling is nothing less than a jackpot for a wanderlust. But there's also the part where you need to be severely interested in the newest vogue model's skin care routine, and that's beyond me. I know most of them out there are feigning it, but I believe if you're not true to yourself, you'd never be able to be true to the people.

Although, I can't deny, I'm thoroughly enjoying this from a distance, sipping on the drink in my hand and forgetting all about the sword hanging over my head, for just a little while. Nolan's also somewhat loosened up now, or so I gather from that unhinged button on his white shirt, flaunting the tanned skin underneath. Try telling my girlfriend that.

I shake my head, setting the drink down and questioning its lack of alcohol when I feel this surge of heat in my throat. "So you never told me about those screenplays? What you write about, the genre and all?"

He goes on to back up in the tiny chair, either because it comes as a surprise or that I really crossed a line here, for someone he met some 24 hours ago. I begin to regret it, on the verge of securing my faux suede boots and once again escaping the scene, when a faint smile of his fawns over my doubts. "No one's really asked me before, so let me digest the fact that it's real," he holds for a dramatic pause before his entire tough guy demeanour breaks apart into child like cackles. Like yin and yang moulded into a single person.

"Okay, since you're insisting," he flips the pages of his notepad, through the caricatures, the sloppy notes, the ink blotches, to come to a halt somewhere in the middle and fiddling with the edges before laying it on the table between us.

I look over, having to squint due to the lethal combination of noon almost overhead and the flash of the press cameras glaring past the skinny models posing in front. "MacAllan Lannister, head of the vampire fraternity, bets his life on getting a simpleton to fall for his charms. Only there's one threat on the path. She's a filmmaker with a dream of exposing the fantastical world and Lannister might just get a part."

I end up chuckling, and it immediately causes the notepad to seal shut and end up back with Nolan in seconds. "I often end up rhyming the plots, it's... it just comes naturally to me, so yeah," he flicks his gaze away to everything but me, clutching onto the thin sheets of the pad like it's both- an ignominious secret, as well as a priced possession.

"First of, I can affirm that rhymes make everything so much more fun," I get a glimpse, but it's quick to mask behind the cover of his aviators. "And for another thing, I found it really interesting. Vampires have been my guilty obsession since years and if it's anything even remotely related to them, you don't need to sell me on it."

He raises his eyebrows, practically scanning me from head to toe. Two seconds of his eyes on me, and the earth's back on its axis, with me behaving all jittery while he's calmer than the night ocean in Sydney. "I couldn't have guessed that," he says, one of his hands grazing the scruff on his jaw, and making this v shaped scar on the crook of his neck more blatant. "But thanks, it's nice when you're not the only one believing in your work. Also, now that I know about this vampire obsession, maybe I can come and take notes from you when I'm stuck on something."

"Huh?" I mutter like a fool, my fingers slipping past the condensation drops lining the champagne glass. Before it can get ant more awkward, a loud series of applauses catch our attention, and to a point where I'm just a few feet away from the press circle.

Nolan's huddled in the back, part uneasy and part bored, but still observant of the reporters at work. They're all restless to say the least, eagerness flooding in their eyes and stress evident from their grasp on the mics. I wonder who the big deal is, when Nolan's words come back to me. NBC Actress.

There are hundreds of those, but born Australian, pageant winner, who later went on to explore the world of films and television... that's only one. "Miss Felicia Baker," an oddly enthusiastic host voices my thoughts and I find my jaw dropping to my feet when, in all of her crimson waves, cherry lips glory, comes Felicia herself, and on a barely three inch wide ramp over the pool water.

Commotion ensues as fierce journalists try to juice the most of her presence for their magazine's content, but the object of attraction isn't even nearly fazed. The stolid look in her eyes and the shimmer of her silver dress would easily stand out amongst thousands too, let alone the local paparazzi. She's smiling, posing, waving, and somehow managing a bunch of tasks in transparent heels the length of my palm. You'd wonder if she's just a figment of my imagination, but it gets real- brutally real, when the host hands her the mic and she begins speaking.

"A very good evening to all, I know it's heading to be a great one for me," her laughter's infectious, reaching farther than the scalding rays of the sun. "There's no doubt by any means that it's absolutely great to be back to this place, to where it all started. Sure, it wasn't the Westin Luxor back then, but the feeling's all the same. Five years ago, Australian Princess had been just this crazy dream to me, as to many aspirants that came before and after. It's become a known fact that we all say this for the sake of it, but for me, to be completely honest... I really didn't think I was pageant material."

Gasps and whispers crowd the humid air, reporters on a sprint to take notes. Felicia nods, ever so slightly, and for that moment, one that's gone within a snap of fingers, I see something vulnerable behind her perfect frame. "Yes, that's true. I was a college going student, I had barely any time to check on my appearance before I left for classes and after I pulled all nighters to catch with those assignments. Believe me, I had no plans to enter this studded world, until I found my impromptu audition video had somehow reached the concerned people," she just smiles, all the poise in place to keep those teenage shenanigans where they belong. "When a letter actually came back, informing me that I've been selected, I almost thought it was a practical joke. It was all really happening, though, and while I could have wavered it off, I grabbed the opportunity instead."

The clawing of her slender fingers combined with ferocious written all over her posture, doesn't fail to strike something in me. "As much as it were circumstances, it was also very much of a choice to stand up to what I'm capable of. And that's the thing most of the times, that until and unless we're pushed to it, we don't take our chances. Chances that might hold the possibility of changing life as you know it."

The mic drops and cheers fill the surroundings, while I'm the only one stuck to my place, dumbstruck and enlightened at the same time. Felicia walks off the ramp and before she's vanished behind the mahogany doors, her gaze halts over in my direction. I might be just hallucinating, but those minuscule seconds do it for me- the sword's off the roof and back in my hand, and there's no doubt anymore.

Grabbing on my tote bag and clutching my phone out, I once again pull open the acceptance letter. The tremble of my palms isn't all lost in the rush of the moment, but I let them sign it off before there's any scope left for second questioning. It's sent and done. My fate sealed.

Soon, Nolan and I are heading out, and the sky's already taken a deep orange hue by that time. We're guided to that special parking spot, this time via the back doors, and the staff assigned to our duty is so in rush, she accidentally brushes against someone in a neon pink Nike tracksuit. Face shielded under oversized sunglasses and a floral scarf, she looks familiar, and it only becomes abundantly clear when the glasses are off and an icy blue replaces them. "Ms. Baker?" The nervous receptionist is at a loss of words, beyond terrified. Why?

"If you can't function in Chanel, don't bother wearing them," Felicia hisses, and yet it's loud enough to rattle everyone in the vicinity. The receptionist just nods and forces a smile back on, while showing us to Nolan's bullet.

I'm still astounded from what I saw, and before I can make sense of it, we're greeted by a few people carrying this board around. There's a poster on top- Felicia Baker taking the centre stage on the glossy paper as well, and below are words that make me stumble on my own feet. "The Mentor for Australian Princess 2019. It's sure going to be Lights, camera, and..."

Hell.