❝Time. It's a strange occurrence, because when you're dreading something and would give anything to slow time, it has a dislodging habit of speeding up.❞
~Harry Potter.

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Two drip bottles, three hours, and four frustrated check-ins from her very host later, Ayla is finally starting to regain her consciousness. Her eyes are the first to open, taking their own sweet time to get used to the non-existence of light. What she notices about her surroundings is simply how hot they are. Opinions start reeling in. Gosh, where am I? Hell already? Am I the new Satan or is he still going to boss me around because I ain't qualified enough to be the head because I haven't sold enough drugs or killed enough people (they deserved it-- or so I hope) or because I didn't right away slam my measly excuse of a one-sided puppy love-- Nathan fucking Smith's head into some hexagon-shaped ice block with pointed edges because he fucked my sister, Meghan, until she hit the nine-months-long train of pregnancy-- despite still holding his stupid feelings for this literal ball of happiness that blinds me with her sunshine every time she is around called Dawn Anderson?

Yeah, she is one humorous young woman.

Only to herself though.

To most others, she is what they would promptly refer to as Tom Riddle's female replica.

The second aspect she notices is that the large window of her room isn't in its usual place, and when she locates its new spot at the farther end of the room, she observes with alarm that the curtains are drawn together. Who the hell shifted the window's position? And why are the curtains drawn dammit?

Out of habit, she reaches out to switch on the lamp on her side table so she can see and thrash whosoever is making such unacceptable changes to her room; only, she finds none, and in its place, something long, thin, and cold.

The contents of her skull resemble a make-shift music rehearsal room in which madmen are left unrestricted to experiment on any instrument of their desire, and with every passing nanosecond, the throbbing sensation inside her head builds faster than she can imagine, but she pushes herself to focus on the object, and after lots of squinting and cursing the lack of illumination in the room, she realizes with another bout of alarm that the pole isn't an ordinary one.

It is an IV pole.

The hell is this thing doing here? she wonders, not quite getting the hang of the turn of events.

Still, there isn't much time between her asking the aforementioned question and her understanding what exactly that thing was doing there. Within fourteen seconds, events of last night draw in, and with every fleeting moment, her heart only grows heavier, her breathing lighter, and it feels as if either her ribcage is too small, or her heart too big to fit in. So I'm still breathing, she concludes after a minute of pondering.

She looks around, examining the place she is in. She is unable to specifically recall the details of how she docked this house, but she knows that the gist of it all is that she has been saved and that she hadn't been in a state to resist.

She peers up at the pole through puffy eyes once again, and back down at the cannula forming the passage for the IV fluid to enter her body, and yanks the needle from within her flesh. Fancy little thing keeping me alive when I don't even want to be, she reflects, piqued.

A thin stream of blood starts pouring from her gash, but Ayla is too busy pushing the comforter off her lean body and scurrying to the slightly ajar door, and when her senses finally arrest the liquidy sensation on her hand, she simply wipes it on the side of her top material.

Yeah, that's roughly how much she cares about herself now.

Her limbs feel weak, like they will buckle under the weight of her body any minute now, and her lungs heavy, like the water from the river had somehow been pushed into them and kept from flowing away, but she suppresses all her desires to go back to the warm bed and sleep all of her pain away. She reminds herself that she has no option but to keep going now. It is she who has brought all of this upon herself, isn't it? So why take the trouble to blame it on something else?

She takes a few steps away from the doorframe, wincing to adjust to the brightness in the hallway that momentarily blinds her when she suddenly stops− or rather, is compelled to stop.

Adrenaline whisks through her arteries as she stares at the beast in front of her. A pang of fear, and the horrific possibility of getting bitten by a member of the hissing family quickly take a toll on her, and thanks to her already lifeless body, Ayla's nerves commence a stampede over her skeletal muscles.

The animal isn't very scary actually; at least not as scary to someone who would've spent his/her whole life in the lush forests of Amazon. With light brown as its base color and dark patches of a blend between umber and golden lining the upper surface of its body, a prominent V mark on its head, and eyes so dark and unnerving, it does look like something close to a...distinct creation of God, if you choose to get a little creative with the description, that is.

Ayla, however, has always been keen on keeping at least a kilometer's distance between herself and the whole of the animal kingdom, which is why the presence of one belonging to the same just a few feet away from her has influenced her mental equilibrium such that it has abruptly become so unstable.

There appears to be a movement in the position of the animal in front of her, not just one, though, but afterward repeatedly, endlessly even. It is much closer to her now, because to it, Ayla is but a stranger, one that it feels owes its master's house no good, and likewise, Ayla too, assuming the animal's intentions, lets her body meet the maroon wall behind her in one final capitulating step.

She forgets how just mere seconds ago she had been hurting herself, not wanting to exist anymore, and instead, now, consumed by the moment of fear, she wants to run; away from the minacious animal lying in front of her and to a place that can be defined as safe.

So, pulling together whatever residues of her courage are left, she runs− away from the snake, and into safety that comes in the form of a chest.

A human chest.

Frans, who had just exited his room after finishing up with this year's last conference regarding a new aircraft design, oblivious to why she is behaving like such a scrambled bundle of nerves, is stunned by the sudden collision of bodies, yet he manages to keep Ayla's lurching body from stumbling to the ground with utmost care.

He observes with a faint smile on his thin lips that his guest has finally awoken. "Hey, you're up," he quips with more enthusiasm than Ayla has in her entire body, simultaneously releasing her from his grip once he is certain that she isn't going to transform into the klutz that he had known her to be.

He hadn't checked up on her for a while now, and is glad she is up before his impatience would get the chance to ring the doctor to come and see if she is alright.

Ayla whips her collarbone by a few angles to look at the guy somewhere around her having about six inches of height on her, and then back at the snake in front of her. She doesn't quite understand how she managed to get into this twisted position, but remains put because 1) she cannot move even if she wants to, and 2) she wouldn't move even if someone would tell her that she could because she knows herself all too well and hence knows that she cannot.

Funny how McKinney, on the other hand, is busy making his own notes about her. Woah, she somehow looks prettier with her eyes open.

She feels his eyes on her way before she turns again. Now she has to look at him. Just a glance isn't enough. She needs more. She needs to drink in his appearance and find flaws in him just like she has done will all other men.

So, she turns.

Hair so black that even a black panther would feel jealous; greenish-blue eyes that are warm and friendly, but can pierce through souls without even using magic if the need arises; pale complexion; a nose so straight and proud-- like it has barely ever had to be lowered in front of anyone; thin pink lips that look so decisive and firm about whatever might leave that mouth, and oh, a firmly-set jaw with a teasing stubble. And with a white button-down shirt whose top two buttons are undone as if to tantalize the looker on about the tanned chest that lies underneath-- fitting his built in a way that isn't too tight nor too loose to seem as if he has borrowed his uncle's shirt from the '90s. And now, Ayla can only wonder one thing: Has this guy never left his house? How come I have never seen him on Vogue's cover page? Is he so stupid that he won't use the extra time God spent over creating him to his undue advantage?

The boy, though, unable to infer the reason behind the quick rise and fall of her chest, peeps around the girl to see what is causing her to be so panic-stricken, and when he sees his snake there, he knows it is the fear of dying that he has seen in her eyes for the second time since he first saw her splashing about in the river.

"Fifi! Lie down," he commands his pet at once. His command is soft yet stern, like he is trying to keep both the parties in front of him at peace by showing no partiality to either one− a thing only Frans McKinney can do with so much efficiency.

Fifi, Frans' apparently pet snake, hisses once again before falling flat on the ground, doing just as ordered.

When she is reassured to a limited extent by the gesture that the snake isn't going to give her the death-voucher right away, she lets out one long and heavy breath. "Geez, that was..." she shudders, recalling how her interaction with the snake had been with a hand placed over her chest to slow down her rapid heartbeat. "Horrifying..."

Frans rubs the back of his neck apologetically. "Sorry, I didn't think you'd get so scared, else I would've put her in her cage."

"So scared? You keep snakes for pets and assume nobody would get scared?"

His eyebrows ride to the ceiling in mirth. Now that's a girl that wouldn't hide her dislike towards the animal just to impress him. That in itself is impressive. This, however surprising it may sound, isn't an everyday affair for him; mainly because everyone who visits him knows Fifi since his father had brought her home from a zoo that had to be shut down three years ago due to illegal activities being performed on the animals, as a birthday present for the animal-loving big boy himself.

"Right, you got a point there." He stifles a chuckle at her expression. "I'm sorry."

Ayla roughly wipes away the precipitate, starting from her forehead to her chin. "Ugh," she grunts under her breathe at being apologized to-- something she absolutely hates. "Forget it, it's nothing."

Frans walks around her to where Fifi is lying low. "Her fangs have been removed though, and she's a venomoid," he fills her on the nature of the snake, concurrently taking Fifi into his arms as if it is a baby kitten and not a slithering not-poisonous reptile.

"A what?" she asks, not knowing much about animals in general. Of course that's what happens when you're too invested in hating people who chew or sip loudly, or racing all types of super-speed automobiles and selling drugs to folks who don't want to live but who haven't done enough good to be very enthusiastic about meeting God; or even when you're so invested in eradicating this planet of ahem, a few 'ball-less sons of bitches'-- Ayla's words.

She can always come up with at least three hundred reasons in just three minutes to justify why her aforementioned abnormal (except the first one) day-to-day activities are better than trying to know the living organisms that occupy the same planet as everyone else. Trust issues can jump from humans to animals really quick when you firmly believe in 'man is a social animal'.

"A venomoid," he repeats. "It's what a snake is called once undergone a surgical removal of venom glands."

Her eyebrows crease in a knot. She remembers reading something about that in her later schooling years. Despite how cold her blood runs most of the time and how she can transform into a wicked witch within nanoseconds, it isn't stuff she appreciates very much. "Isn't that illegal?"

He nods. She is catching up. "It is. That's why the zoo had to be closed down and the animals either sent to the reserves or--"

"Or be sold to people who are so willing to invest loads in bringing snakes up at their own," she interferes with distaste.

Frans doesn't take account of her lack of attraction to his beloved pet. Instead, he articulates his ability to take such comments lightly with a pleased titter. "Right. That's one way to put it."

Ayla's eyebrows furrow together once again in tension, the sight of the long animal spiraling its thick body around the boy's arms sending an alarming sound right out of her mouth. However, her shriek dies inside her throat, this time with panic as Frans approaches her, the animal slithering along the length of his long hand as he moves.

"Touch it, it's soft."

Ayla moves back as quickly as she can, almost losing balance and falling into the showcase behind her. "Mama--" she cries out in dire desperation, the tag she used to address her mother somehow always finding its way onto her tongue when in trouble or distress. She hates it, and for good measure; it gives the person in front of her an impression that she is Mama's lil princess when she never was and can never be, and safe to say, it has been almost a year and a half since she last used it when she had gotten her toe stuck in the nonexistent space beside the fridge and had to wait for her sister to come and push the 450-pound fridge aside so she could retrieve her beloved toe. Frans stops moving. "No, please, for the love of God, just keep it away from me or watch me die from some sort of attack. An arrest or stroke or just anything-- you name it!"

Oh, look at it, will you? Ayla Naceri doesn't want to die now!

"Okay, okay, okay, chill," Frans takes one step back, eyes wide, not wanting to scare the poor girl more than she already is, although the look on her face makes him want to do it just once more. "I won't bring it near you."

Her efforts to hide her long body beside a relatively shorter showcase explain the gentle upward pull of his lips, but luckily, Ayla doesn't see it, saving Frans from another exaggerated fit. She lets out a breath and comes out of the little corner that she had pushed herself into-- not wanting to come off too girlishly timid. In her defense, that was the best hiding place she could find so soon. But her relaxation time doesn't last long. In the momentary silence that lapses when Frans kneels to place his snake on the ground, she recollects why she had left that room in the first place, and licking her chapped lips, considers everything she can do to escape the situation.

Of all the ideas she gets at the thought, she, however, opts for the least practical one; to exit whatever place she is at without another word so she can finally put an end to herself.

Defamation.

Heartbreak.

Conflicts.

Betrayal.

Lies.

Pain.

All end with death.

At least, that's what she thinks.

She hastily forces her weak legs past him so she can go hunt the main door and be gone, but her movements are brought to a standstill when Frans puts his question out verbally, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "Going somewhere?"

Ayla spins about the axis of her feet. What does he mean?

But soon, facts pertaining to the actuality that the guy in front of her has absolutely no clue what her intentions behind falling in that river were flood her train of thought. An awkwardly rigid silence crams into the setting as Frans waits for Ayla to tell something, but she doesn't, because unlike him, she knows that they both don't really share mutual sentiments regarding her being saved.

Do I make up a "slipped foot" story? Or one wherein I have been pushed by someone? And who will that someone be? A mafia king who has threatened to kidnap me if that is what it takes to marry me because for some godforsaken reason he finds my life-less soul equivalent to wife-material despite me already rejecting him more times than he can count on his fingers? Or, a malicious cheater sister? Or a best friend/sweetheart who doesn't want me revealing his true colors to his beloved girlfriend?

She is still contemplating the reply she can give him, but perhaps she had spent too much time cooking up a mental broth because Frans' voice echoes in her ears once again, "Ayla?"

And just like that, her mind goes blank.

Everything she had thought of telling the guy in front of her is suddenly wiped away until her train of thought is empty, and instead, her mind is recharged with a dozen questions as to how he could possibly know her name. Wait− scratch that, it isn't him knowing her name that she is bothered about; it is him knowing the name that her parents had given her, the name that only a few close people address her as, the very name that she has tried so hard to scrub off her history that actually bothers her.

"How do you know me?" she fluffs out, voice expressing her alarm and her walls high on guard.

Not the time to play by principles.

Now, it's Frans who is floored by her question. Although he hadn't expected Ayla to remember everything about the few encounters they'd shared in the past, he sure as hell hadn't expected her to have forgotten him, especially since his sister had always bragged to him about her good memory. And maybe also cause he takes pride in the fact that his personality isn't one so easy to forget.

"Don't you re−" he starts, but something inside him deters him from completing his question. He doesn't know what to name the feeling, but he knows it holds a strong sense of authority over his mind. Not everybody will always remember you. Sometimes, you can start afresh, it advises him. So, with another idea on his mind altogether, "Um, your ID. I got it from your ID card that you're Ayla Halima Naceri," he alters his reply.

"Halimi," she corrects him.

His lower lip moves in a way that exposes his lower set of straight teeth, and he wedges his tongue between his left upper and lower canines. "Halimi." He coughs. "Sorry."

She nods distractedly, hoping he is telling only the truth because she actually has a lot to lose if he isn't, and he realizes that he is interrogating a girl who has just returned from a state of unconsciousness for more than two-thirds of the day in the middle of his hallway after she had been unceremoniously frightened by his pet. The lack of hospitality on his part kicks in, and he is quick to motion her towards the settee a few feet from where they are standing. "Here, sit down," he tells gently.

She has yet to get over the fact that her host has no clue of the achievements she has gained in the sports field, because if he'd come to know her through that department, then he would've surely addressed her by her pool name, and not Ayla. But then again, it isn't an everyday thing where someone, despite not knowing her or the amount of wealth, name, and fame she has managed to gear in a span of just four years, welcomes her with so much warmth, so she waves her worries goodbye and complies. Even if it tears her internals inside out to do so.

"Thanks," she forces out, taking a seat at the farthest distance from so-called Fifi, and a small distance away from Frans on the plush sofa. But sitting requires movement of muscles, and the ache in her body is only a reminder of the pain she has inflicted upon herself, and it doesn't make the idea of sitting there idly, not doing anything to erase it, bring any peace to her intellect. She tries distracting herself by peeling off the tips of her nails, but of course, that is a highly stupid thing to do for someone who knows she cannot do well with distractions.

"Hey, Lauren!" Frans calls out suddenly, drawing the attention of the girl beside him in the direction of his address. Apparently, he is better at distracting her than she herself is. The latter watches as a pretty blonde emerge from somewhere inside, quickly wiping her (seemingly) wet hands on the front of her apron. Ayla takes in her appearance; tall, lean, and as already mentioned, pretty. She is tanned, an indication that she belongs somewhere on the coasts, and when her eyes meet his, her eyebrows rise in curiosity.

"Yes?" is her question for him.

He smiles at her, albeit politely. "Water, please?"

She nods. "Just a moment." She vanishes from the spot and returns as promised-- in a moment, and with two glasses of water. Placing the tray carrying them on the table in front of him, "Anything else?" she asks him.

"That'll be all. Thank you."

He collects one glass and passes it to Ayla. Although not in a mood to really consume anything apart from that which will guarantee death, she still accepts it, not wanting all the hassle he went through to get her just a glass of water go to waste. Not a thing some random stranger would do for her, again.

Frans and Lauren watch as she chugs down the contents, and once she is done, it is Lauren who talks to her. "Hi. How are you now?" She questions, shyly wriggling her fingers together.

Ah. Another person who knows her as a victim of a deadly slip and not the sportsman she is so famous as. What, have these people not turned their sports channels on for four years?

Ayla fixates her eyes on the blonde, admiring her natural beauty once again. "I'm fine," is her robotic response. Obviously, that is the last thing she has been for the last three years. Her existence had solely been based on proving how much worthy she is of love and attention and support and respect to people who had not even once tried to search her down. People who had put her down until she wasn't sure her self-confidence could even crawl, let alone go back to riding so high in the air. Her parents. But she still stood. Tall. Steadfast. Elegant. But sue her (and them), for, it had costed so much more than just money and time. But neither of the people in front of her had to be made aware of that, right?

Secrets can be kept, lies can be told.

Lauren bobs her head in understanding. "That's good. Take care. I have to admit, I would love to sit here and get to know you but that pot on the stove is calling me and if I don't go now, you'll have to deal with some gooey, over-cooked soup instead of ramen for dinner tonight." She motions behind her and towards where Ayla assumes is the kitchen, a lopsided grin lifting the charms of her pink lips.

"Right." Ayla compels herself to acknowledge the friendly aura emitting from the girl in front of her for the sake of formality. She is like a very mild version of Dawn Anderson-- Nathan's supposed girlfriend. "Bye." She waves at her, the action, paired with another artificial smile, consuming whatever sediments of energy were left within her.

Politeness really comes at a price these days.

Lauren retrieves to her pot of ramen and Frans looks back at his new company. "She's Lauren, by the way. Helps me keep this house tidy and also cooks some really amazing food. And of course, talks more than a normal homo sapien. She's my sister's friend." He enlightens her, adding the last part in hopes of earning some sort of response from her regarding his sister. Someone she knows so, so well-- or, perhaps more accurately, knew, once upon a time.

But no. No reaction at all.

At least, none that she lets him see. Internally, though, the mere word 'sister' is enough to push her to the edge and make her fist the fabric of the sofa. Goddamn sister.

"Hey!" it's Lauren drawing their attention from across the hallway now, a deep scowl on her face. "I'm your friend too, mister! How many times do I have to remind you of that?"

"Hmm, let me see." He ponders with a thoughtful look on his handsome physiognomy before rotating on his spot to face Ayla. "You tell me, Ayla. Is making an eerily translucent ghost out of glow-in-the-dark tape and secretly putting it in someone's backyard a friendly thing to do? And that's like, one of the most friendly things she has done to me-- her supposed 'friend'." He rolls his eyes.

Sounds like something Nathan Smith would totally do to Ayla Naceri.

Lauren smacks her forehead. "Goodness, Frans, that was during Halloween like, almost six years ago! Besides, I think you should be very grateful because that's just how much Google can help you with 'frightening pranks to pull on friends'. So stop being such a crybaby, and get over it!"

She disappears around the corner before he can retort. Or before she can get so invested in a debate about why Frans should consider her his friend for so long that she has to scrub blackened cookery after dinner; if dinner even remains dinner and not slime.

He shakes his head before turning to Ayla and breathing out. "So," he rubs his palms together almost excitedly as he questions her. "Skinny dipping, eh?" He asks with a lazy grin.

Her eyes narrow almost immediately. Every individual who has assumed skinny dipping to be a fun activity should definitely go to Hell. And although I am going to Hell, I would never buy my ticket to the said place from the counter called 'skinny dipping'. "Ha," she rolls her eyes in arrogance. "No way I am so stupid."

His eyebrows climb onto his upper forehead. Confidence: check. "Aha? How did you fall into that river then?"

Suddenly, goosebumps are covering the entire surface of Ayla's body, and looking back on the things that had forced her to take the cowardly action, she shivers ever-so-slightly. Let's see; Cedric Broderick promised to make sure I don't leave the underground world-- against my will, of course, Luciano fucking Giordano will stoop to any level to wife me, I have lost the last two swimming matches to some tiny Chinese girl who thinks she is very smart, Meghan's pregnant and Nathan's apparently the owner of the sperm that fertilized my sister's egg, she reminds herself as if these little facts could ever leave her head so long as she lives.

And because they aren't very happiness-inducing facts, there is only one way to get rid of them.

Death.

Which is what she was doing in that river; trying to die.

But some hot guy had to express his love for humanity by saving me.

Naceri looks at the said guy waiting patiently for her to answer. Although lying is one of her mastered talents, thanks to the secret training she received as a part of growing up under the supervision of strict parents and later working alongside douchebags, she feels rather abashed at feeling the need to lie to a person humane enough to save her, despite her hoping against such an act of kindness from happening.

Still, whatever the matter may be, or however humane he may seem, she cannot afford to tarnish her pride. She has worked extremely hard to get to whatever position she stands in now, to let her emotions steal that rank from her, excluding whether or not she chooses to be alive afterward.

Because if there is one thing one must never forget about Ayla Naceri, it is that she never lets her pride down, come what may.

So, shutting her eyes for a mere nanosecond, knowing what will come from her regarding her tumble into the river will comprise of lies, and only lies, "I fell," she urges herself to deceive him, making an effort to keep contrite off her tone-- something she has never had to do in all her years of flawlessly lying to and lying through. "By mistake," she adds.

Ayla is unable to call to mind the last time she had felt as guilty (even if it is only slightly) about lying to someone as she does now. She is somewhat close to correcting herself-- maybe inside her mind but whatever, accepting how ashamed she is about her deeds but how she still wants to get through with herself, but she knows she cannot do it.

The other thing she cannot do, however, is sit around and lie and not do anything about getting the planet rid of herself.

She places a palm atop her forehead and lets out a gasp, feigning agitation. "Oh, boy! I need to get back home. Fam must be so worried," she says, standing up on wobbly feet.

Fam? Really? You got any of that thing left? snickers her conscience at her.

Frans' lips form an 'O'. He looks up at Ayla's standing form and proposes his suggestion, "Hey, listen, it's already late. Why don't you wait until tomorrow? I gotta leave to my sister's place anyway, I'll drop you off on my way."

Sister... I too have one. She's a real cheat, though. Ayla is pleased in the least sense at Frans' proposal. "No, no, it's okay, I'll go," she says, already making her way away from him. However, on her way, she stumbles over a fold in the carpet that she had failed to notice and almost falls.

Her cheeks taint crimson. How and why she is being so clumsy, with her sentiments as well as appendages, she cannot explain, but all she knows is that it has something to do with the look on the face of Frans McKinney. It has to do with that curious stare he is giving her that unnerves her. The way he is examining every single move of her. That goddamn scrutiny.

No.

No.

No.

Don't get distracted.

He watches the scene unfold in front of him with amusement painted over his features. He leans back, crossing his arms over his broad chest and allowing a teasing smile to flood his face entirely. "And someone was telling something about leaving alone, eh?" He questions, satisfaction clear in his voice. So she's still a klutz.

But boy was he so wrong.

"Ugh..." mutters Ayla under her breathe. Her teeth grit together, and she has to shut her eyes to let Frans' comment slip past her without leaning forward and moving a few phalanges and limbs such he will be sporting a toothless smile-- or maybe a dislocated nose. Even so, she knows she will have to do more action than she can afford in her weak state because boy does he look finely fit. She concludes that in order to keep him from getting to know about her dirty intention behind leaving with so much urgency, she will have to postpone her next (and hopefully last) attempt or risk social humiliation. She huffs, irritated at not having the upper hand like she always does. "Fine, um..." she drawls, motioning with her hands, wondering what his name is.

"Frans− the name's Frans," responds McKinney, catching the hint of a question in her response. He leaves his surname out on purpose just in case she recognizes him as the member of a very renowned household in London, and not as the highly successful person he has become by himself.

Frans, she repeats to herself. Perhaps I already know someone of the name...? she wonders. Frans, Frans, Frans... she tries recalling, finding bells ringing in a distant part of her brain pertaining to the name. But as it seems to be happening since Ayla has regained her consciousness, Frans, once again, diverts her attention from her thoughts. "You can call and inform them about your whereabouts, though," he suggests.

Ayla internally lets out a bark of laughter at Frans' statement. I don't have nobody to call and inform, Frans. Not now, not ever. "Oh no, it's alright," she says, waving her frostbitten fingers in the air. "Tomorrow isn't far away."

Although the statement is told to Frans, it is mainly meant to keep Ayla's mind at peace, to keep it from burning to ashes at not being able to lose its ability to work now itself.

Another bout of silence ensues. This time, though, Fifi− having heard enough of her stomach's grumbles, breaks it. Ayla jumps slightly as she hisses loudly again. Frans facepalms, only now remembering the meal-- comprising of three toads-- he had forgotten to give his pet an hour ago. "Oh, boy, I'm so sorry," he exclaims, truly apologetic. He stands, and turning to Ayla, "Hungry?" he asks, but before she can reply, he realizes just how ridiculous he sounds at the moment. "Oh, who am I kidding? You've been off for so long, you must−"

"How long?" interrupts Ayla, curious as to how close she had gotten to death.

Frans frowns, quickly doing some mental math. "Twenty-and-a-half hours, to be precise."

Ayla's eyebrows shoot upwards in shock. "I was in the water for that long?" she cries out.

"Oh, no, no," tells Frans, shaking his head, "That was how long you were unconscious. I think you were in the water for some twelve minutes. At least, that's what the doc told after examining your frostbites," he informs, motioning to Ayla's swollen fingers with his eyes. "He was kinda surprised you still had your pulse going; the river was half-frozen, after all. Said something about your body being very supportive and strong." He adds with a gentle smile.

Twelve minutes in ice-cold water. Yet, still alive. Well well well, isn't my body tough? Ayla mocks herself. "Dammit," she swears under her breath, softly enough for it to go unheard past Frans' auditory perception. Stupid Google said it would take less than fifteen minutes in freezing water. Isn't twelve less than fifteen? Bloody liar.

Frans, not really expecting Ayla to reply to what he had revealed to her, completes what he'd initially wanted to ask, "Anyway, what say about some hot spicy ramen noodles?"

Obviously, Ayla desires something so much a contrast to 'hot spicy ramen noodles', but she knows Frans won't take no to be an answer. For just a few more hours, let's turn a blind eye to our desires, she consoles her troubled mind, following Frans towards the kitchen.

-

-

-

Tomorrow arrives much later than Ayla could've waited for without actually ripping out about a hundred strands from her head and clenching her jaw for so long that at times, she had to stop only so Frans and Lauren wouldn't hear the resulting reverbration.

His niceness was making it harder for her to breathe, so immediately after dinner, she had retired to the room assigned to her for the night and stayed there, looking into the creases in her palm and attempting to decode whatever they must mean. There has to be a reason this is happening-- everything happens for a reason, after all. But considering how I'm not a palmist by profession, it's highly unlikely for me to derive the meaning behind these lines without either turning this bizarre excuse of a brain into what a cross between hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide would result as, or before I can kill myself right here at the assumption that maybe I am destined to be a sex-trafficer's wife.

She isn't a fan of having her nose cut off in front of anybody. Hence, palm-reading was called quits.

But she had to pass time-- nine good hours in a four-walled enclosure with no phone, no TV, no vogue magazines, no guns to examine, no hot red lipsticks to try on-- and of course, no guys to steal attentions of for the rest of the season. Of course she would find all of those-- maybe not guns but who knows, all she had to do was walk to the door and turn the knob, but apparently that was too much work for her.

So she had resorted to doing the one thing she would've never done under normal circumstances.

She slashed random strands of her hair.

...with a knife.

But that was only for an hour before she decided that she didn't want to be lowered into a grave looking un-pretty-- and that's saying something because un-pretty and ugly are two different approaches to define one's taste in looks; or hair styles, to be more specific.

So that's how she ends up in front of the tall dressing table, her elbow-length straight hair tied in a braid whose sole purpose of existence is to keep her hands from yanking the roots-- or pulling random strands and splitting them into two with the knife she had stolen from the kitchen just in case urgency got the best of her and she had to slit either her throat or wrist before she could leave this house.

The fact that she has been clothed in a simple white T-shirt that belongs to a guy, and neon and black sweats that are twice her size hasn't gone unnoticed by her. Upon asking Frans during dinner what the matter with her own clothes was and who had seen her naked against her permission, she was smiled at and consoled saying it was Lauren who had changed her clothing because they were freezing cold and that he was sure she isn't gay.

Suffice to say, she was slightly comforted by the fact that Lauren had returned to her own house just ten minutes ago, so there was no chance of her (Lauren) becoming another source of noise pollution. It's not like Ayla wouldn't have stuffed a whole apple inside her mouth had she not stopped screaming at Frans' choice of words. Stupid girls and their tendencies to scream when they can clearly get their point across to the other person without having to abuse their vocals to produce freakish notches of octaves.

She runs her numb, slightly swollen fingers over each other, her mind elsewhere and her eyes not quite focused on the physical damage. She has yet to look into her image's eyes, to finally see what a muddle she has allowed herself to land into, to understand that it is still not too late to repent, go MIA and return with her nationality British and hair coloured platinum blonde and eyes teal-- a combination she has always secretly wanted over her beautiful obsidian hair and equally obsidian irises.

She swallows the saliva accumulated in her mouth due to repetition of the same old inimical thoughts and tries the inevitable once again: to look into her image's eyes. But just as soon as her gaze draws upto her slowly rising-and-falling chest, she stops-- as if some divine force has restricted the movement of her orbs only to that extent, and a fleeting second later, she is again staring at the perfume bottles standing atop the dresser.

Goodness, why-- just why can't I face myself? She asks although she already knows the answer.

Because those eyes have seen what could only be called 'murders', and because that mouth has given orders that have resulted in said murders, and because those ears have heard gunshots that have killed the innocent--

No. No. No.

She did not kill him. She did not commit the murder of an innocent. She did not take away the husband of a wife and the father of three children. She did not orphan his family.

She sighs, giving up on facing herself. The whole world on one side and her self-conscience on one side, yet she still wouldn't be able to convince herself for something that the rest of the seven billion are thriving on when her conscience wouldn't support her; because the only person she knows she can never lie to, is herself. Oh yes, the girl's got serious pride issues.

Generalizing the issue on a broader spectrum, and with less intensity of damage caused, most folks-- the girls especially, would find crying to be the ultimate coping mechanism; as if releasing salt water from one's eyes would ease the pain of a soul disturbed from deep within. But life has exceptions in all departments, especially so when a certain girl has experienced firsthand how who have seen her get down to her feet and release so called 'tears' for reasons that she is certain even amnesia cannot make her forget, later use those negative factors to play her down. Hence, she doesn't cry-- she hadn't anyway for a very very long time now, escaping the method of display of vulnerability with perfect excuses. Weak folks cry, she had been repeating to herself. There is a problem in the way she perceives the matter itself, isn't there?

Although Ayla would never ever accept this openly, a small voice at the back of her mind is still telling her that what she has done, and what she is planning on doing, is very wrong. It explains to her how time is still left for her to rectify her doings. But what position is Ayla in to listen to it? Now that she has gotten a taste of self-harm, and has relished in the feeling of it, regardless of who tells what, she desires for more.

She desires to die.

It is a knock at the translucent door that catches her attention amidst the mental chaos. She gulps the clot stuck stubbornly in her oesophagus, spine straightening subconsciously and shoulders rolling back immediately. Graceful.

She walks towards it with light feet, opening only to come face-to-chin with the reason why she is still alive. Frans. She discreetly gulps again, not liking how he is leaning against the thick doorframe with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his white shirt discarded for a full-sleeve grey shirt and black joggers, his eyes unblinking and his stare unnerving.

One full minute of silence passes.

She wants to assume that the stare is a result of his admiration of her beauty just like so, so many men out there have done, and she would've succeeded in doing so too had the case been elsewise and she hadn't behaved like a semi-klutz in front of him earlier this night and if he hadn't addressed her as Ayla. Surely he had reasoned that it was her ID card that had leaked that vital information about her, but the 3.8 seconds he had wasted before replying had caught her attention all too well to be abandoned carelessly. And as if to prove her hypothesis, the um he had uttered back then was the factor that almost gave him away. Almost, not entirely. She cannot shake the feeling that she might've had associations with some guy called Frans in the past, yet she remains unable to place a face over the name. So, she lets him breathe without asking questions that might lead to the infamous checkmate.

She knows that look all too well. She herself has given it to so many folks when trying to decrypt them and their intentions without having to ask. It is the same look you give Latin books when you're an Indian with negative one percent knowledge of Latin but a hundred percent interest in it. Being made a victim of her own propensity, though, wasn't inducing any butterflies in her chest, so she decides to talk up before the atmosphere gets so thick that even waving a hand in the air feels like cutting through the tension. "Hmm?" She vocalizes without opening her mouth.

He pushes himself off the doorframe and thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his sweats, swaying lightly on the balls of his feet. "No sleep?"

She nods once. "Something like that."

He mirrors her actions before, "Can I come in?" he asks formally, nodding at the room behind her.

Her eyebrows slowly rise, and she finds herself pulling her arms around her chest. "You often ask for permission before entering a room that I am certain is a part of your own abode or is this a first time?"

He grins, but stays put. "Speaking from experience?"

Her eyebrows fall back onto their designated bones. "No. I like to think I am normal." --as normal as a girl who left her parent's house at eighteen and got into swimming for a career and had everything planned out neatly for herself before some dudes from the same gym that she used to go to, tipped her off for something along the lines of drugs and murders and she soon found her beauty to be desired by men dangerous, and tall, and handsome, and so she continued with the lifestyle till it consumed her completely.

"Normal enough to consume barely six spoons of ramen soup, leave the noodles untouched, and still not sneak into the kitchen late at night to assuage her hunger?"

She shrugs nonchalantly, as if his observations haven't caught her off-guard at all; her previous negative thoughts pushed out of the way as she stands on the receiving end of Frans' interrogation. "I wasn't hungry."

"Wasn't; past tense." He tilts his head. "Meaning, there is a possibility of you being hungry now."

"I didn't say that."

The look of pure satisfaction on his face that bothers Ayla only grows. "You didn't deny it either."

She lets loose a breath of irritation. "Aren't you gonna come in?"

She hadn't intended to change the topic because she had no comeback; no, she did it so because she was losing her patience at his display of such a friendly demeanor and the reminder that the Ayla Naceri from four years ago would've literally bestfriend-ed him by now-- because that girl with a hyperactive personality wasn't supposed to be mourned, ever.

If he senses her lack of interest in being engaged in a conversation, he doesn't mention a thing about it; instead, he motions her to follow him out of her room and into the fancy hallway with a wave of his left hand. Of course she isn't interested, or even volunteering for the sake of formality, but another stare from him later, she reclines into the offer. Maybe his damned self can keep her mind off the endless pit of troubles she has tumbled into.

He walks ahead of her-- towards the kitchen, and she allows her eyes to carelessly drift over the interiors of the apartment like she had done not two hours ago when they had headed in the same direction. He hasn't shown her around the house, but that isn't necessary for her to conclude that it surely is a classy abode.

She strolls through the gallery, eyeing the appreciation certifications and trophies cramming the showcases in pride. She pauses for a moment to glimpse at the purpose for which they were awarded to him; most of them are for environmental services, whereas some for throwball or tennis and the others for some aircraft related achievements. She understands the last ones the least, but she doesn't bother asking him about it. What won't kill her, she doesn't need to know, right?

But perhaps she should've paid more attention; especially so to the surname that had been highlighted in every certificate, on every engraving plate of each trophy, because then she would know why his name had rung those bells and whistles all those hours ago.

Why he should be the last person she should associate herself with.

The wall of fame gone, the kitchen nears. She notices that her human guide is light on his feet; maybe not as much as her, but certainly light for a guy. She furthermore notices how there is an underlying element of power and purpose in his walk, as if to highlight his bold and brisk personality. She has seen this type of walk very often, knows it too well; it is the walk of prideful, confident people who know what they're doing in life.

The kitchen is large, the walls enclosing it are grey, and almost everything-- from the cabinets to the island counter to the tiles beneath her pale feet, everything is made of expensive white marble. On her right is a large two-doored silver fridge pushed between the many cabinets, several sticky notes pasted over the doors; on her left is a shining six-burner stove, and right at the center of the kitchen, is a very broad island counter resting on a grey block with stools neatly lined up on one side. The lighting is warm daylight, and there are curtains drawn over the windows on the third wall, perhaps to keep the cold away.

The kitchen is chic and welcoming in its own way, but Ayla finds it hard to accept so much white-ness at once, mainly because majority of the things, walls, equipments, furniture in her own house are painted variable shades of black.

Black like her soul.

She moves around him to take a seat on one of the five metal stools behind the counter when the strength in her legs becomes minimal and she fears collapsing onto the pristine floor. The leather sinks under her weight, and she finds herself breathing in deeply to keep the shaking in her rear appendages from getting a reaction out of her, simultaneously leaning into the back of the chair.

He looks at her-- not that he had been able to take his eyes off her form while she rounded him to seat herself, but she doesn't have to know that, right? Blame it on the unmissable aura about her that hasn't failed to pull his attention taut. "So, Ms. Naceri," He rubs his palms together, smiling softly at her as he approaches the fridge backward. She doesn't at all like the tag of address he has used, associating her with the family she would rather never be a part of-- not that she ever was, but she doesn't let her frayed emotions display. "What's the most bizarre thing you've ever eaten?"

Random, but at least that puts her to thinking.

Aside from the whole Italian cuisine that her taste buds thrive on, she knows food from her home country will always be on the forefront of her favorites. But that food is nowhere near bizarre.

Meghan's food is bizarre.

She opens her mouth to answer, but she has a feeling he has eaten much worse dishes than her sister's nasty, down-the-gutter, catastrophically-made, food-poisoning-potential excuses of dishes, so she shuts it. She opens it again, "Like I said, I'm normal. And I don't think bizarre is normal." Lie.

Keep it short and simple. It's not like the world is gonna break over your head if you don't tell him about how Meghan once tricked you into eating fried lobsters with jam and butter saying the fried lobster sticks were bread rolls with ice-cream inside.

His eyes narrow at her sly strategy of dodging the question. "Anything bizarre can be considered normal if you want to."

Her reply is instant and unlike what he would've expected from any 'normal' human. "They are two different words with meanings almost the opposite of one another. It's better they are left as opposites and not tried to be crammed in one sentence that makes very little sense."

"Have you not heard of opposites being attracted to each other?"

She averts her gaze, an unexpected laugh falling out of her full lips; he identifies it as humorless. "That's some shitty excuse given by hopeless romantics. Plus," she leans over the counter, a slight smirk on her pink lips as she stares him down. "Even if opposites do attract, who says attraction is all it takes to stick together forever?"

She has punched right into his gut with her remark.

Matters of the past may be pushed to the furthest corner of one's mind, but they can never be forgotten.

He clenches his jaw and turns around, away from her challenging stare. There is a pause in his actions as he opens the fridge but doesn't turn his attention to its contents. It seems, he is thinking, because he soon puts out another random question. "What according to you is bizarre?"

Her pulse increases. She is the perfect candidate to be asked this question given how her life is more bizarre than normal. Yet she doesn't have an answer at the tip of her iceberg-like tongue, so she does what she always does in a predicament where she is rendered speechless-- a rarity in itself. "Why do you ask?" she asks back.

She sees him shrugging in nonchalance, the question not even nearly affecting him like it did her. "Just considering your take on life."

She tilts her head, breathing heavily as something happens to the insides of her body. She feels very, very weak, and it doesn't even have anything to do with her emotional state. She feels like she is falling. "Why..." she breathes out with trouble, trying to focus on his back which is getting blurry by the second. "Why would you want to d-do that?"

"Just to prove to you that normal is the last thing you are." He replies, as if that one statement will somehow answer all of her unasked questions. He doesn't mean it in a bad way, because he is definitely one to appreciate people who are aside from normal, people who don't just agree on everything he says, people who aren't just beauty, but brains and hearts too.

People like her.

Although he has yet to understand that maybe her heart too doesn't function normally.

Perhaps he shouldn't have expected a reply, perhaps he should've continued searching the fridge for the almond milk carton without letting her silence consume the space in his mind, perhaps he should've closed the door with less force and perhaps he should've expected her to suddenly get up to leave the room.

But no, he let her get to him.

He so badly wants to justify his aforementioned conversation with her saying that he hadn't liked how the silence was so uncomfortable and he was just trying to lighten it up, but then he would be lying like crazy. Because he knows it has a lot to do with her silence-- something he had never witnessed in the years he had spend his Christmas holidays at his aunt's house and she would come around giggling merrily with chocolate cookies and charm bracelets for her best friend; something about the lack of the bubble of happiness that he so clearly remembers seeing around her four years ago; something about that oh-so friendly smile her carefree personality had shot him the very first time his sister had introduced him to her--that he hadn't seen even once in the last four hours.

She is under the archway that leads one into/out of the kitchen when he hears her sigh loudly. She is gripping the bends in the architecture on the wall on her left, and with the right hand, she is trying to steady herself.

It happens within nanoseconds, but she is collapsing, that too very fast.

He ditches the microwave that was warming milk for both of them, and in three long strides, he is beside her, arms stretched outwards to keep her form from touching the ground with disgrace. She slumps into his grip, unable to support even a gram of her own weight.

"Ayla." He calls out, tapping her cheek with his fingers. She looks up at him through almost-closed eyelids, but that's all; no response. "Ayla!" He checks for her pulse, realizing only moments later that it isn't coordinated; he feels fluttering sensations, maybe even feels her heart skip a beat-- or two, only to start jumping again. "Ayla, listen to me, stay awake." He watches as her eyes drift close, but he slaps her cheek, successfully getting a reaction. "Stay awake, Ayla!" He mutters frantically.

Swiftly, he retracts his phone from his pocket and dials his doctor's number. He places the phone on his shoulder and presses the side of his head onto it to keep it from falling. It starts ringing. Balancing his body on his left knee, he pulls her right arm around his shoulder, and with another arm of his under her thighs, he lifts her off the ground completely. He is quick to carry her to her room, carefully lying her down.

Her form is rising and falling as she struggles to breathe. She is sweating from every possible sweat gland on her body, and he can't help but panic about her well-being. Still, he gulps the fear into his system-- he can deal with it later, and is quick on his feet to switch the heater on and cover her in the spongy, plush duvet. And that's when the doctor picks the call he was getting from a certain Frans at one-forty-six at midnight.

He explains the matter in a series of words and sighs and 'I don't know what to do' and 'please, please, be quick', and is comforted by the doctor that everything will be fine and that he will be at his house within the next seven minutes, and just like that, deja vu hits him as he finds himself in the company of an unconscious girl, again.

He gingerly takes a seat beside her body, his arms automatically reaching out to stop hers from shivering more that they already are, but she never was a compromising girl. She points at the coat hanger in the corner and yelps, "He-- he! Tell him to go away. Tell him to go away. I--" as if possible, her breathing becomes harsher.

She is hallucinating.

"Ayla," he grabs her arm roughly to catch her attention. "There's no one there."

Her actions don't cease, though. "He-- no no no no, please, don't! Don't k-k-kill him!"

Frans utters seven curses in two seconds before shifting closer to her and scooping her in his arms. With the duvet still wrapped around her, he carries her for a second time this night to where the room heater is. There is a recliner seat right in front of it, and he has never been more happy to sit down, pulling her into his lap, shifting just a tad bit such that she is lying atop his chest and he can see her face from above her. Under other circumstances, this position would've led to lots and lots of sexual tension, but not today, and not now when her breathing is labored and it has nothing to do with his presence. He looks at her; What's happening to you, Ayla? he wonders.

The warm waves of heat do not excite him, reminding him of the unforgettable fact that he was, is, and perhaps will always be a winter person, but he needs her to get well, so he just sits there, wiping the condensation off her forehead as her breathing becomes better. His hand stops rubbing her back only when, exactly six minutes later, the doctor rings the bell and he has to put her down to go open the door. Yet, he can't stop himself from thinking back to the events of the kitchen. Did I say the right thing at the wrong time? Or was it the statement that triggered her?

A while passes as the doctor tends to her after Frans updates him on her status, checking her pulses, blood pressure, and everything else that hypothermia can affect. He asks McKinney to get as many hot water packs as he has, and since Frans isn't stingy at all, he thinks eleven would be appropriate. Nobody complains, though; the more, the better.

She is shifted to the bed by Frans when Mr. Pete has to re-attach the IV fluid for the night. "And now we let her rest," says the doctor finally, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips at having aided in saving another life.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when Frans McKinney finally decides to pay some attention to his haywire lungs.

She is alive. And she's going to be okay.

"Maybe she isn't the fittest right now, but she should be perfectly fine within a week." The doctor moves away, his hand resting on the knob as he turns back to Frans to remind him of what he has already reminded him for four times now. "Make sure she has her medicines without fail. And if possible, chide her for not having them today."

Fran's raises his hands in protest. "I swear I gave them to her. She put them inside her mouth in front of me!" he yells in his defense.

"Did you see her gulp them down?"

The answer is obvious after a little thinking. No. "It makes no sense. Why would she not want to have them?" He groans out, squinting in confusion.

The doctor seems to understand his helpless predicament so he decides to help him out. "You say you found her in the river, Frans?" McKinney nods feebly, not understanding where the doc is heading with this. "Might I have to remind you of what type of people are found in freezing rivers in the middle of nowhere?"

The answer is obvious yet again. Just not so easy to accept. He shakes his head frantically. "No no no, if suicide is what you're implying, then no, it isn't possible. She isn't the type to practise self-harm."

The doctor tilts his head, an almost-apologetic smile on his lips. "You say it as if you know her personally."

Fran's nods. He knows her enough from the daily stories she would post on Instagram about self-motivation and the million reasons why one shouldn't ever fail to see the beauty of life, to know that she cannot-- would not commit suicide. There's no way she has become a hypocrite to her own words over the years.

Gradually, flashbacks of his limited conversations with her come to his mind.

He remembers her asking for his Instagram ID so they could keep in touch even after he would go away after Christmas break; he remembers her flooding the chat feed with emojis everytime they replied to each other's stories and caught up on life; he remembers how, four years ago, on Eid, he hadn't been able to find her account in his following so he could wish her on the Muslim festival, and upon asking his sister what had happened to Naceri and why she had suddenly deleted her account, he had to literally transfer a hundred dollars into Sofie's bank account to stop her from turning her eyes into an ocean of salt water because Ayla had unexpectedly gone missing about a week ago, and that none of the Naceri's would tell where exactly she had gone and as she had quoted that day, "She has gone away for good," was what they would tell her.

They had never been close, Frans and Ayla, yet they existed in comfort when around each other. And when he visited his sister that year, he knew he couldn't ignore her absence, her jingle-like laugh that had even his strict uncle (Sofie's father) melting into.

She was like magic; sprinkling stardust everywhere she went. She didn't need to fit in, she made the others feel like they fit in perfectly well.

He remembers it all and damn, he remembers it perfectly well.

Great memory power does that to you; it doesn't let you forget even the smallest of occurrences. "Yes, I... She's my sister's friend."

"Sofie's?" the doctor asks, having been the family doctor since very long.

McKinney nods yet again. "Yeah, her friend."

"Well," the doctor licks his lips. "That may be a good reason to eliminate suicide to be a factor for this case. Did she tell you what happened?"

Fran's nods for the third time. "She said she fell." Then he remembers what she had been specific about when she had mentioned her fall. "By mistake," he adds.

The doctor suddenly has a strong feeling that the girl has lied to him. Since Frans, however, seems so adamant about retaining her image as honest and worthy of his trust, he doesn't put his opinion out. The boy has got to figure things out for himself. But one thing puts him off. "Hold on," he says with a frown. "Did you say she is your sister's friend?" For the record, Frans finds himself nodding again. The doctor's frown only deepens. "Is that only reason you know her?"

Frans' eyebrows rise onto his forehead. Wow, the doctor is sure as hell being a real tubelight today. "Why, is there any other reason I should know her?" He asks nonetheless with an uncertain chuckle.

"Oh, McKinney, McKinney, McKinney," Mr. Pete shakes his head repeatedly, feeling bad for Frans who looks lost as a stranded puppy on a rainy night. "Where have you been living? Under the rocks? Behind the rainbows? Above reality?" He shoots one question after the other, as if seeing Frans embarrassed is giving him some sort of a pleasure. "That," the doctor points at Ayla's sleeping form. "Is a two time winner of the World Aquatics Championship-- bagging five gold medals in her first year, and the only one to get nine in the second year."

Silence.

Wait. What did he say again?

"She is a what again?" Frans McKinney squeaks out, shocked.

This must be a dream. A very bizarre one.

Shush, no more bizarre! The more you've started talking about bizarre, the more bizarre things are happening to you, he reprimands himself.

Who would've thought that the merry-go-lucky girl who smiled at almost everything, who spoke so much and so well that she could get the Instagram ID of a cute cashier for Sofie by the time he prepared her bill, and who apologized even when she mistakenly bumped into broken vans-- would go on to become a World Champion?

The doctor smirks. Oh boy, he really does live under a big, fat rock. His voice is a hoarse whisper when he speaks: "A real glider resides in your house, on your bed, McKinney. Not only is she the fastest and the smartest, but she is also the prettiest in the room. I suggest you train your hormones whilst around her. A regal beauty like that doesn't come without trials and troubles."

Good Lord.

Frans doesn't look as stunned as the doctor had expected him to; instead, as he looks back at Ayla time and again, as if sorting some mental conflicts about her, his scowl only deepens, the possibilities endless. "Right then," he shakes his head, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry about disturbing your slumber at this hour, Mr. Pete. But really, thank you for coming. If you hadn't, you would've gotten a call from Lauren tomorrow morning and then you would have to attend to both, her and I, because I would've surely gone insane before sunrise."

They both join in a laugh, and Frans feels slightly better. Come on, it's not like he brings unconscious girls home everyday and earns his living off babysitting them! This is as new for him as being vulnerable in front of others is for Ayla.

The doctor smiles and pats Frans' shoulder. "I'll see myself out. Take care of her. And don't think twice before calling me in case you need any help."

Frans waves him bye, and when he hears the click of the main door, he finally allows his shoulders to deflate in despair. He roughly rubs his eyes, opening them a moment later to gaze at the girl who has managed to plunge his state of mind from normal to stark mad.

He doesn't leave the room although he has nothing to worry about her well-being now; he just stands there for a while, eyes trained on her pretty face. There is serenity in her straight features, surely, but there is maturity; a type of maturity that only comes with the sacrifice of one's innocence. Something stirs in his chest.

He moves towards the bed, licking his lips swollen from repeated biting, and when he sits down beside her, what he had failed to see in the past two hours, becomes clear now: Something has definitely changed over the years. He shifts, resting his head against the tall headboard as his hand gently pries the damn hair away from her face, and he ultimately allows his mind to repeat the sequences of the bizarre episode of some thriller series that his life has become in a matter of just twenty-four hours. She is a swimmer; the fastest and the smartest, that too. Yet, a fall from a broken bridge had somehow been so damaging that she couldn't make it to the coast.

But just as he had feared, something doesn't add up.

How could such a trained swimmer not swim back to the coast? Or, if she could, then why didn't she?

He picks his phone from where he had left it discarded by the foot of the bed, quicking typing into Google's search box. Ayla Naceri the World Aquatics Champion.

Several highly unrelated results flood his screen. He frowns, what the hell?

He alters his query this time, List of the last World Aquatics Championship winners, and clicks on the first link, teal orbs quickly scanning the entire page for her name, but to no avail; he doesn't find it. What the fuck, dude?

So he alters his search again. Who is the only person to get nine gold medals in last year's World Aquatics Championship?

The name that shines in front of his tired eyes is one he has heard several times, both from his little brother and many of his friends, and boy, with what sheet pride and admiration had they taken that name, as if it was their own girlfriend's name they were chanting in a chorus; nonetheless, he had never put a face to the name.

Rebbeca Black.

His heart is slamming into his chest at a ridiculously high speed and the palms that support his phone are imposing illegal amounts of work on the sweat glands therein as he reads the first line beneath the name in big, bold black without opening the link. Rebecca Black made her debut into the aquatic world of championships at the age of eighteen in a local tournament held in 2018 by the reputed... he stops reading.

It's been four years since 2018.

Ayla is twenty-two now.

Chance occurrence?

He reckons not.

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heya, fam! wassup? Chapter one's up and out. What do you think of it?
This book's gonna be on the intense side, so propel up buddies, we're gonna have a really feeling-y ride so as long as it lasts! Also, one VERY important thing; Frans McKinney is not a good boy. Nope. He can be mean, evil, cruel, selfish -- everything that every human can be. I don't plan on making anyone here perfect. They're going to have so so so many flaws, you're gonna be like wait-- is it normal to have so many flaws to oneself? Likewise, Ayla isn't a completeeeeee bitch either. She is horrible and she will kill you in your sleep, but that is only if you mess with her. Plus, it's her past and the way people have behaved around her that has made her the way she is.

They both will come around and you all will love them so much-- I'm sure of this! Fingers crossed though lol.

yeah. im done. take care, bye!