There's a pretty stranger standing in my hospital doorway, donned in jeans that have too many rips and a shirt of the hospital's brand that's too big for her, though I can't tell if it's intentional or not. Her hair is up in an unyielding ponytail that seems to match the mood of her crossed arms and overlaced ankles.

My eyes narrow in at the action, intrigued by the way she stands. She is both intimidating as well as timid, a combination that contradicts yet fascinates.

I haven't the slightest clue who she is.

Not like that's really a surprise; I barely know anyone outside of the house, and even then, puberty has hit my younger twin siblings hard enough that it took me a moment to recognize them.

I'm a stranger to even myself at the moment anyways. While looking at the mirror didn't give what was perhaps the best image (cuts, bruises,  three-day-scruff and looking half dead is surprisingly not appealing), I could still see the difference growing up had given me.

"Hello," I say kindly, trying to meet bright blue eyes set into naturally tan skin. The contrast is sharp and alluring, the itch to paint it vague but insistent.

She startles at my greeting, as if suddenly pushed outside of her own little bubble and back into the real world entirely unprepared. Her head shakes—this tiny, almost imperceptible movement that takes place the same time her eyes widen and her eyebrows dart just the slightest bit upwards.

Subtlety belongs to her, her ability to restrain her reactions commendable.

It takes only a moment and—yet so much longer than—before her posture calms and her eyes focus back on my face. "Uh, hi," she mutters, almost as timid as a deer in headlights, eyes suddenly more hesitant to meet my own. The metaphor matches her; she reminds me of a young doe with the way she stands and talks and moves.

If she were part of a painting she'd be surrounded by beautiful wildlife, a celestial being out of reach but there to admire.

"Sorry about that," she mutters, and I lose the image I'd conjured up. "I was just—um—well, I actually don't have a decent excuse." She laughed, nervous but not too obviously so, and I find myself amused at her too, the smile infectious.

She looks horribly uncomfortable but doesn't make a move to run away, just stands a little straighter as she hides her hands behind her back. False confidence. Forced. I can tell from the shift of her muscles that she must be playing with her fingers. A habit?

"Dalia," she says, her tone more even than before. "Lia for short."

I tilt my head at the introduction, watch her watching me for some sort of reaction. If she introduced herself, then that meant she knew about the amnesia, right? Something in me wants to say my name in response anyways, but I don't want to look dumb, don't want them to think the crash has killed both my memories and my brain cells.

"How did I know you?"

She tenses, a tiny sound escaping her as her eyes blink repeatedly, caught off guard. I can't get the idea of her as a doe out of my head.

I immediately scold myself as she stutters for a reply, her body suddenly shying away from me, curving forward as one foot takes a step back towards the door like the thing she wants to do most is bolt.

I raise a hand hurriedly, as if the action might to compel her to stay the way it does for our family dog. "Wait!"

She stops stuttering at the command, and it's almost funny the way she seems to shut off, her entire body stilling as she waits for my next move.

"Sorry if that was rude," I say first, because I weirdly feel like I've done something worth offense but don't quite know what. "It's just—with the amnesia—I—"

"Oh."

The simple, monosyllable word that comes from her dawns a realization for us both.

"Well, then that's my bad," she says, chuckling nervously to hide her discomfort. Nothing about her has seemed at ease since she's stepped in. "We—uh—we didn't really know each other or anything and I don't really have a good explanation for why I'm in here because it's not like we're good friends or anything and I—well, I should actually shut up and leave you to your recovery." She grins at me then, timid and kind and shining bright like the sun. It makes me want to gravitate towards her, a planet enslaved to its strongest pull.

"No, wait," I say, and wonder if the reason I've now said that word twice is because I'm trying to prolong her visit in any way I can. Is it because I find her pretty? Or is there some inkling of familiarity that makes me want her near?

She pauses in her exit, tilting her head at me in a polite and wordless question. There is something childish in the motion, immature and bewildered but... perfect for her.

I want to know her. Even if I didn't before.

"My name's, Matteo," I say, and she doesn't say anything to tell me she already knew so. "Tell me how we know each other. Maybe something can jog my memory."

Her nose crinkles at the idea, but only for one flash moment, and the amount of body language she has held in the little amount of time she's been here is riveting.

She looks unsure about the idea, and I can tell from the way her face shifts that she's biting the inside of her cheek in consideration. Another habit? "Sure," she says, but her voice wobbles indistinctly and then smiles as she walks back into the room.

She doesn't look at me as she approaches but I can't stop watching her. She is graceful but natural, and it feels like the kind of swagger one has grown to learn, one made in order to hide something.

She takes a seat in the chair beside my bed, her body stiff as a Barbie doll, like she's still considering making a run for it. She glances to the medical drama on my screen I've had on all day with a small grin on her face before she turns back to me, her spine finally curving, sinking closer to the chair.

Her anecdote of us is short, almost as long as our current brief encounter from the sounds of it.

"Well look at that," I say once she's finished, and it does what I wanted: draw her attention back to me. She's a pretty girl, there's no wonder I'd tried to sit with her. Even if we'd ended up never talking, at least a good view would beat a bad one. "I couldn't get you to sit with me then but here we are now anyways. It's practically fate."

She hums at that, thoughtful but not quite entertaining the idea. I perk an eyebrow

"What, not a believer of fate?"

Her nose wrinkles along with the squint of one eye, revealing a dimple on her cheek that's higher up than other dimples I've seen on people. "I like to think that we get to decide our own paths," she says, shrugging as she leans back into the seat.

The words are sobering, real and heavier than I'd expected. Does she do that often? Spill out things that are important as if they're nothing at all.

I grin at her, something I can tell comes out a little more melancholy than I thought it would. I am aware of it, of the way my lips tilt but my eyes don't go along with it, receiving a different command. Eyes are the windows to the soul, they say.

The reminder of my amnesia is there again, having over me like a sword. Dalia may be choosing her own path, but I've wondered off mine unintentionally, and I'll either find my way back to the old one or be forced to find another.

Both seem like quite the daunting task.

"Matt, sorry I'm a little late—"

My older brother freezes as be steps inside the room, noticing Dalia lounged beside me. His eyes are all at once concerned and confused and surprised. He has a bag strung over his shoulder, probably an overnight bag ordered by our mother.

"Hey," I say, sitting up a little straighter, hoping the gesture will draw his attention back to me and not Dalia. "I made a new friend."