"when you see it,

I fell asleep in Alastair’s car. Only for a few minutes though.

When I woke up, still in a groggy state, the first thing I felt was the side of my head pressed against the cool window. Then I felt the warmth around me and I figured it was the car’s heater. I didn’t feel as cold as I had before. 

My gaze then fell down to my injured hand. There were tiny droplets of blood soaking up into the tissues that were still wrapped around my hand. I pushed my bangs out of my eyes, looking over at Alastair.

He was still driving, but he didn't look as furious as he did when we both had gotten into the car. 

My eyes trailed down to his hand that gripped the steering wheel, at the freshly bruised knuckles. He punched Noah, I reminded myself. I wasn't sure if that made me happy or sad. It shouldn’t make me happy. It shouldn’t when it had been my fault. I had been the one who'd kissed Noah. I had been the one to pull him up into that room tonight--or at least that’s what he had told me.

I led him on. It wasn’t his fault. It was all my fault.

“We’re almost there.” Alastair glanced at me. I saw his frown softening when his eyes found mine.

I would’ve recognised the street if I wasn't so tired. And my head still seemed to be spinning a little. “Where?” I asked. My voice, I grimaced. It sounded so hoarse.

“The studio,” he replied. 

Not my house. Maybe that was for the best. I didn't know how badly it would escalate if he left me on my own right now. I was painfully aware of being such a burden. Did Alastair think I was a burden?

When Alastair stopped the car somewhere behind the familiar studio, I opened my door after he opened his, and nearly stumbled out. I had closed it by the time he stepped beside me, gazing down at my hand.

Maybe he wanted to hold my hand. I wouldn't really know since I shifted away from him, stepping towards the closed studio doors. 

“Is Andrea here?” I asked.

I felt him staring at me from behind before he came alongside me, pulling out a pair of keys to open the wooden doors. The back entrance to the studio.

“No.” He replied. “She doesn't live here.”

“How do you...How did you find this place?” I asked, staring at him this time.

He pushed one door and held it open for me. “Andrea was one of my father’s closest clients. My aunt too. She’s...a little like family.”

I blinked in surprise before nodding. I didn’t step towards the doors though. He was talking about his family. I remembered the distraught look on his aunt’s face, the day they'd found the dead body. His dead body.

“Does your aunt know?”

I saw him fidget a little with the keys and sliding them back into his pocket. He was still holding the door open for me, pressing his back against it.

“She does.” He said after a while, then met my gaze.

“Only I didn't.”

Why? I wanted to ask him why. But I didn't. I couldn't think of any reasonable explanation for it, at least not at that moment. And I didn’t think it would matter anyway. Maybe there was no explanation. Maybe he didn’t tell me just because he didn’t want to.

“You’ll freeze out here.” Alastair murmured. “Come on.”

I think there were tiny specks of hesitation within me, but I still stepped inside the studio, letting my shoulders droop when the warmth of the insides hugged every inch of me.

It was silent here. And empty. 

“Why am I here?” I asked him. Even the quietness of my voice sounded a little too loud between us. I was glad. I didn't think I could have voiced it out any louder.

“You’re staying here.”

I stared at his back and he was moving towards the end of the room, towards a small staircase.

“Why?” I questioned, still not moving.

He turned around when he realised that I wasn't following.

“I don't know, Ophelia.” A small frown formed on his face. “All I know is that I'm not letting you out of my sight. Not after tonight. Not when I know what you do to yourself when you’re there between those people who don't see you destroying yourself.”

I exhaled softly. “I'm not…” I shook my head, walking towards him and the staircase. “I’m not destroying myself.”

“Okay.” He said, his eyes momentarily dropping down to my injured hand again. “But that doesn’t mean I believe you.”

I was fine with that, more than I should've been. It was a tiny spark of hope that I felt right then. At least someone was brave enough to acknowledge that, hold on to me despite all the barriers around me. At least for one night.

I didn't remember all the hallways we passed along, reaching a small lounge and a really warm bedroom. I didn't remember much. All I remember was sitting down on a bed (I think it was Alastair’s bed) and closing my eyes briefly before opening them again when Alastair stepped in front of me. 

He kneeled down in front of me then, on the floor, and I noticed he wasn't wearing his jacket anymore, just the white t-shirt underneath.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

I blinked back the sleep and held out my hand in front of him. It took a lot of me to keep my eyes open and not sway backwards, or forwards, as Alastair gently patched up the cut on my palm. It wasn't deep, he told me. But it was still bleeding a little. He kept on glancing up at me after every few seconds or so, almost as if he knew I was about to pass out any second from exhaustion.

The harsh sting from the antiseptic took me by surprise and I flinched, grabbing Alastair’s shoulder with my other hand.

“Sorry.” He took a quick, worried look at me. “Almost done.”

When he was done, however, he didn't let go of my bandaged hand. I think I didn't pull my hand away from his shoulder either. Because when I touched him, it felt a little easier to believe that he was real and right here and not dead. It made it easier for me to breathe and not feel like something was crushing my airway, sitting heavily over my chest. When I could feel him, it didn’t seem like I was miserably stuck in a nightmare.

“You’re cold.” He spoke up, his thumb softly stroking along my knuckles. I eyed his hand and the skin around his knuckles. It was bruised, though it did look like he had washed it. “You should--”

“Alastair.” I cut him off in a whisper. A pleading whisper. A desperate one.

He fell silent and merely looked at me, waiting.

“What if…” I trailed off, looking at his fingers against my palm, keeping my own hand so still like ice. I was afraid it’d go away. The soft warmth of his touch. The familiarity of our hands together. What if you’re gone when I blink open my eyes again?

“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked him instead.

He kept staring at me, and the soft grey in his eyes scared me.

“Was it because of--”

“No.” He cut me off, standing up and letting go of my hand. I watched my hand falling down on my lap, limp and cold. My heart skipped a beat when he took a step away. Fear, fear, fear. “It wasn't because of you.”

He left the room and didn’t come back for hours. Or maybe those were really just a few seconds. When he did come back, he had a large black hoodie in his hands and then he was handing it to me.

“Then why?” I asked, looking up at him with wide, questioning eyes.

“You look exhausted. You should sleep,” he said.

I inhaled sharply, mostly in disbelief. “So you’re going to do that. You said you wanted to explain and now that I want you to, you won’t do that.”

“That's...not true, Ophelia.” He furrowed his brows, shaking his head just a little. 

“Yes, it is.” My voice sounded so raw out loud. Strained. Still desperate. “I don’t...I haven't seen you for almost a year. And the last time I saw you you were dead!”

I saw him wince. I hated myself. “That wasn't me.”

“I figured.” I snapped. “How else would you be standing here?”

He clenched his jaw, looking away from me. I could see that he wanted to say something but was stopping himself from doing so. What was he not telling me?

“Did it ever occur to you, during that whole year, that if you had told me the truth, or if anyone had cared to tell me the truth, I would've been so much better than...than this?” My voice broke in the end and his eyes found mine again, sad and lost and broken. 

“It did,” he whispered.

“But you didn't care.” I forced it out. I think I was trembling. From cold or from sadness, I didn’t know. He doesn’t love you anymore, a small voice spoke in my head. It’s gone. Every feeling is gone and lost and so far away. “You didn't care enough to tell me.”

Alastair was silent at that. I looked away from him, down at my hands. I wished, I so dearly wished, that I could have changed something, anything about this situation.

“Maybe you shouldn't have told me now either.” I whispered. He heard it just fine though. Because I saw him pulling back his hand, the one with the hoodie, back towards his side in surprise.

“You don't mean that.” He sounded sad, just as much as I felt at that moment. Or maybe a little more. How would I know?

“Maybe I do.” I took the hoodie from him, keeping my fingers away from his even if it pained me to do so. It was cruel to still miserably love him and not be able to touch him. It was so painfully cruel that I knew I wouldn’t ever take it back--the chance to love him.

He stepped back, letting go of the hoodie. I could’ve almost felt the hesitation in his gaze as he stared at me.

“You should sleep.” Was all he said before he left the room.

I didn't ponder over it much. I didn't ponder over anything before falling back on the bed, drowsily pulling off my boots and crawling up further on the bed. I didn't even bother to change into the hoodie that Alastair gave me. I just pressed it against my face, inhaling his familiar scent, and giving into sleep right then. 

Peace. It felt like I could have a peaceful night of sleep after so so long.

******

There was something on top of me. That was the first thing I acknowledged right when I woke up the next morning. It was a fleeting moment of panic when I jerked open my eyes and sat up--or well, tried to at least. Instead, the thing sitting on top of me prevented me from doing so. 

And then it licked my face.

“Oh God, ew.” I breathed out, covering my face with my arms and scrunching up my nose. All I got for a response was a series of small, little barks.

I had a dog on my bed.

I didn’t mean to throw off the little pup from the bed. I really didn’t. I didn’t even know it was a little puppy and not a grownup dog. It just took me by surprise, especially right after I had woken up.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I scrambled off the bed, pulling the sheets that were somehow tied around my legs, and leaned down to pick up the black and white furred puppy--who was now on the floor, on its back, and actually looking like it wanted some belly scratches.

“You scared me, bud.” I whispered, cautiously picking the pup from the floor and placing it back on the bed. The puppy seemed a little jumpy and a whole lot excited.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I winced and pulled away from another aimed lunge on my face as I sat back down on the bed. My head seemed to be wobbling. “Whose pup are you?”

The puppy--a black and white furred pomsky, I think--barked again in response. It was a surprise to find a puppy in my bed, but then I realised this wasn’t my bed. Or my room. Or my house. I inhaled slowly, looking at the pillows beside me. It was the small, familiar ache near my heart that made me shrink back a little.

Alastair was here. He was really here, wasn’t he?

The puppy barked and nudged my knee with his small black nose. I shrunk away a little more, softly patting its fur. I wondered if it was a he or a she. I wondered if this puppy was Alastair’s.

“What’s your name?” I asked the pup in a quiet whisper, and only got a bark in reply. 

It was extra late, I realised, as I looked up at the wall clock. I was late for my classes. But then it slowly, gradually, dawned upon me that it was a Sunday today.

This room was awfully similar to Alastair’s dorm room back in Oak Valley. Smaller, but the tidiness was the same. The same few pairs of books lining in the otherwise empty shelf. The same familiarity of Alastair around everything here.

I wondered how long it would take me to get used to all of this.

I got out of the bathroom after a deep, long shower, trying and failing to rub off everything from last night. But there was a mark near my shoulder blade and one near my neck, the color of a light bruise, and it made me want to claw my own skin, wanting the feel of Noah’s lips off of my body. It was all my fault. Perhaps Alastair had seen them, those marks, especially with the dress I was wearing. Maybe that was why he'd looked so angry last night. Maybe that was why, for a fleeting moment, he had looked ready to kill Noah.

I pulled on the hoodie Alastair had given me last night, over the dress I had been wearing before. The short purple dress smelled like booze, but I didn’t have anything else to wear. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to wearing just a hoodie. I hated how bare everything felt with that short dress, even more so than last night. I hadn't even bothered wearing any leggings. 

When I slowly walked out of Alastair’s room, barefoot and feeling the cold morning air caress my legs, I jumped in surprise when the little puppy rubbed itself against my ankle. I was, unfortunately, always a little too jumpy around dogs (or cats) and perhaps that was why we never really had any pets back at home.

I stopped in front of a small kitchen and cautiously sat down on one of the counter stools.

It wasn't warm in here anymore, not like last night. Wrapping my arms around myself, I pulled on the hoodie sleeves over my fists and leaned against the counter. Everytime I tried moving my right hand, it hurt like a bitch. So I tried not moving it at all (which was easier said than done).

“Hey,” someone spoke up behind me.

I turned around and looked up at Alastair, who seemed like he just got back from outside, carrying two grocery bags in his hands. And his hair, I noticed, was disheveled in every direction.

He went ahead and placed the grocery bags aside, shrugging off his jacket. When he turned back around, I forced my gaze back up at him.

“Morning.” He passed me a small, tired smile. It felt strange to see him smile. It ached inside me when I saw him smiling. That’s why I didn't bother staring any longer as I turned back around and leaned forward against the counter.

“Morning.” I murmured, not smiling back. What was the point of smiling these days?

A series of excited barks broke the silence between us and I once again felt surprised to register the third presence here.

“Hey, Milo.” I heard Alastair behind me. Then he was speaking to me, “Have you met Milo?”

I curled a little more into myself and nodded, closing my eyes briefly. The hangover was there, it seemed, but the patheticness was far more easy to feel right now.

“Yeah.” I said, then passed a glance over to the little pup, who seemed to be rolling on the floor now. “You...Weren’t you allergic to dogs?”

“I am.” Alastair replied. “Milo’s not mine. He’s Andrea’s.”

“Oh.” A whisper left my lips as I looked back down at my hands, letting the silence take over once again. “Okay.”

Why is he with you then? I wanted to ask. I didn’t, though. Not when I wanted to ask so many other questions. But maybe like last night, he would refuse to answer them with his silence.

“Your phone rang more than twice.” Alastair walked inside the kitchen, running a hand through his dark locks. “I didn't tell you before because you were asleep.”

Where did he sleep? I wondered. One look at the couch and the pillow on it told me that he probably slept there.

“How do you know?” I asked him, eyeing my phone on the other side of the counter.

He raised his brows in question. “Weren't you asleep too?” I further asked.

He shrugged in response. I took that as a no.

“Andrea will be here in an hour.” He told me as I inched forward to pick up my phone from the counter. He was rummaging through the fridge now. “She comes at around one everyday.”

“To wake you up?” I asked, still not switching on my phone. I was gripping it so tightly, but not making a single move to switch it on.

Alastair smiled, not looking at me. “No. I help her out at the studio sometimes.”

I frowned at him. “Why?”

“The paintings are nice.” He said and I saw him switching on the stove. “And up in the storeroom, she’s got loads from my parent’s house. Most of the ones my ma painted.”

I blinked in surprise. Twice. “You never told me that.”

He turned around and leaned back against the counter behind him, regarding me somewhat confusedly. “Never told you what?”

“That your mother liked to paint.” I said. 

He frowned for a tiny second before shrugging again. “Must've slipped my mind.”

“There were...there were paintings there when you took me to the mansion.” I said, remembering that day in Knightsridge. How much easier things had felt back then. “You didn’t say anything about your mum when I asked you about those paintings.”

“What mansion?”

“Your parent’s.” I said. Then added, “When you took me there. Knightsridge.”

He stared. And it was strange that he didn’t seem to be staring at me, not really, but looking a little lost in thoughts. Conflicted--that seemed like the right word to describe the look in those grey eyes of his.

“Oh.” He said after a short while, then turned back to the stove. “It...must’ve slipped my mind. Like I said.”

He was hiding something from me, I realised. And perhaps it was just me he wasn’t telling whatever that was going on in his head. It hurt when I thought about it. It probably shouldn’t have but it still did. 

Swallowing, I nodded and switched on my phone. First I saw the missed calls. Then the texts. Most were from Mum. A few, I realised, were from Helen too, apologising for the things she had said to me yesterday. That took me by surprise. Maybe I worried them all a little too much. It didn’t help the guilt I felt right then.

So I called Mum.

“Lia, for God’s sake, what's the point of having a phone if you can't answer texts and calls?” Mum exclaimed right as she picked up.

I fidgeted a little with my left sleeve and watched Alastair preparing breakfast in front of me.

“Hey, Mum.” I said quietly. Alastair glanced at me from over his shoulder and when our eyes met, he passed me a small encouraging smile. “I...uh, I'm sorry for not answering earlier.”

“You should be.” She sounded angry, but I heard the concern in her voice. “Where are you, sweetie?”

“At a friend’s.” I lowered my voice and hung my head low.

“Which one?” She asked. “Nora came by in the morning looking for you. Lia, you told me