DOMINGO
6:39 AM

Dahlia Gray

I knew, agreeing to driving lessons with Harlow, I wasn't going to learn how to navigate behind the wheels in under two weeks.

It would've been hopeful thinking, to learn how to drive and take my driving test all in one go, but I knew it was close to impossible. We haven't even started doing the actual driving yet—either from Harlow's lack of confidence in my ability to operate a vehicle or in my own lack of optimism that I could handle it.

Whatever the case may be, I'm just going to have to learn how to overcome this obstacle.

I decided to take the public bus. I knew absolutely nothing about the city's main load of transportation, or how it operates, and I tried memorizing the bus routes and their schedules last night. It became a bust, however, and I resorted to printing it out instead.

The closest time for a bus in early morning, to the city, was at 6:45AM, and it would take an hour and a half to the city. We would arrive in the city at approximately 8:15AM, and then I would hop onto another bus at 8:25AM to get to SAINT Laboratories. That would take an additional fifteen minutes.

The thing about the whole situation is: I'm fine with waking up at six in the morning to get ready, to have breakfast and head to work. Especially on the weekends. However, the real issue will be the weekdays—where I have school and I would need to make it to SAINT Laboratories by four. I finish school at three.

I really hope I plan this out right.

I hear the exhaustion of a vehicle pull up, and I look up from my stacks of papers to see an approaching bus. I read the name—apparently there's different types of buses—and it matched the one in my timetable.

The door swings open and I'm the first one to board, handing out a dollar and a couple of cents for the ticket, to which the tired bus driver raggedly rips from his roll. I thank him, nonetheless, and head off to find a seat in the back.

The moment the bus pulls out of the bus stop and begins to follow its route, anxiety begins to pool at the pit of my stomach over my decision. My thoughts taking me to places, telling me I got on the wrong bus, or how I should get off and not make a fool of myself for accepting such an opportunity.

I try to ignore all those feelings, distracting myself with the stack of papers I printed out for myself. It was the paperwork the website told me to read over—including some extras, such as the layout of the headquarters, the time schedule, and the needs-to-knows for the new interns.

The ride took about an hour and thirty minutes, like I predicted, and the moment the bus stopped at the city's bus stop, people began to pick up their belongings and head towards the exit. I didn't realize how quick we got here, and I begin to panic, throwing my backpack over my shoulders and slipping the pages back into the folder in a neat order.

I was the last one out, and the moment I stepped out onto the city's sidewalks, I picked up a light breeze. It's been a while since I've returned to the city, and it's unnerving to admit that I'll be working here soon.

In trade of suburban living; with small stores, buildings the size of a modern home, a population exceeding less than fifty-thousand people, and a handful of activities to choose from—I'm met with skyscrapers that tower over each other in competition, dense city-life with bustling people walking through the streets and an abundant amount of activities to pick from.

I had to strip my eyes away from admiring the city and check the time. It reads that it's a little after eight-twenty, which means I have about fifteen minutes to get to the bus stop for the next transition.

I found the bus stop with ease, and discovered a load of people already waiting. Some holding suitcases in one hand and reading their phones in the other. Some dressed in suits and ties, like they're off to an interview, while others are dressed down in a simple white button-down and slacks.

I noted that everyone was conveniently older than me, the youngest probably being in their early-thirties. It made me feel much smaller than I am, and anxiety began to creep on me like an old friend.

The bus soon arrives and I hop onto the crowding vehicle, my eyes searching for an open seat. Most of them were occupied, saved for a couple that were quickly being taken by oncoming passengers. Everyone comes in like a swarm of bees—pushing and shoving.

I touch the outline of my inhaler.

The bus proceeded before I got to a seat, and I had to quickly adapt to what standing passengers were doing. I hook my fingers around a pole, and grip so tightly my knuckles begin to grow white. I wasn't falling—gracias dios—and I decided to wait it out.

The bus pulls up to my destination after fifteen minutes, and I notice the SAINT block letters decorated outside the front gate. I excuse myself from the pole, mumbling apologies as I reach the exit and step out onto the sidewalk.

The bus pulls away after it finds that I was the only one out, and as the departing vehicle moves back onto the main road, I begin to pick up the extraordinary view of SAINT Laboratories.

I didn't know what I was expecting—maybe something similar to the NASA headquarters—but what I'm greeted with was a modern campus. Similarly structured to the colleges I've seen, the headquarters of SAINT has wide concrete walkways with every couple of blocks having a row of bikes lined up on the sidelines. There's decorated plots of lands for flower bushes, trees, and hedges; intertwining nature alongside the creation of humanity.

The main building runs on solar power—as told by the website—and it's built with open views of the campus all-around. From a distance, the entire building looks as if it was made entirely of glass, with the exception of cut-edge corners with solid material for secrecy.

I walk with awe, lingering on the outskirts of the building. At this early hour, there's a few girls on campus but mainly guys dominated the field. Some were even on bicycles loaned out to the community.

I wanted to check out more of the campus—especially inside of the main headquarters—but I had to be considerate of the time. I glance down and notice that it was almost nine, and I'm supposed to check in at the front reception by ten.

As I was closing near the building, I found an open patio of tables and chairs, with an umbrella shadowing over each table. I noticed that it was mostly empty, save for the exception of a girl—who looks around my age—and she was highlighting something off of a textbook.

I didn't know anyone here, and I knew Presley had been unenrolled from the internship, so I was left without a companion or a guidance. I'm not comfortable with guys—considering my history with my father—so, out of that knowledge, I decided to take a chance. I took a seat.

The girl glances up, her almond brown eyes meet mine. A blank expression wields her features, and she cocks a brow at me. She has medium brown skin, with perfect eyebrows, a straight nose and full lips. She wears a bright red hijab on her head, and a flowery brooch pinned at the edge of her scarf.

She doesn't say anything, returning back to her textbook and highlighting the rest of her studies. Off beside her notes and stationaries, is an unfamiliar candy brand, that I notice she would occasionally take from.

My heart racing in my chest, as I debate on my next plan of action. I want to ask her if she could help show me around, or tell me more about the campus, but anxiety picks at me. She hasn't said anything, since I sat down, and now I'm questioning if this was a good idea after all.

The whole thing.

I clear my throat, "I'm Dahlia." I say in a small whisper, but loud enough for her to hear. She doesn't look up. "My last name is Gray, so together, um, I would be Dahlia Gray."

The girl continues to focus on her studies, reaching out and grabbing a piece of candy from the bag. I continue. "I'm in high school," I reveal, "and I'm new here. I heard about this internship from a friend? I don't know if that's what I would classify him, but he used to work here. His name is Presley."

I thought that would spark her interest, or at least make her look up from her studies to meet my gaze. She doesn't, and continues on as if I wasn't here. I was probably annoying her, now that I think about it, but I'm really trying to make a friend here.

I look away from the table and back to the campus, admiring the view. "I didn't imagine SAINT to look like this," I pause, hoping she'll contribute. She doesn't. "I, um, I thought it would be more like NASA, more business-like, a rocket every couple of blocks. Instead, it looks like I'm interning at Google instead."

"You didn't print it out?" I hear an unfamiliar voice ask, with a slight accent behind their words. I turn back around in surprise.

My eyes widen, at her returning the conversation, and she glances down at the folder in my hands. I realize what she meant. "Oh, this?" I open the tan folder, spreading out the stacks of papers I printed out last night. "It was just some paperwork the website told me to read over, the time schedule, and the needs-to-know for the new interns."

"And you didn't print out a picture of the place?" She asks, pointing with the tip of her highlighter.

"Um," I shuffle through the papers, "I printed out a layout," I excuse meekly, showing the white-and-black layout of the building, not the campus. "But um, no, I didn't print out any pictures."

She cocks a brow at me. "Why not?"

I feel heat rush to my cheeks, "um," I mumble, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. "I ran out of ink."

She quiets, and doesn't say anything in return. I thought she would laugh at me, or my lack of preparation, when I look up to see amusement flickering in her features. She doesn't say anything, however, and her brown eyes read me from head to toe.

I regret talking.

She probably hates me.

"Am I disturbing you?" I ask quietly.

She returns her gaze to mine. "I'm debating whether I hate or like you right now."

I was surprised by her honesty as it confirmed the thoughts I had brewing in my head. It doesn't hurt any less, but at least I can prove I'm not going crazy.

I gulp, plastering on an awkward smile, "I'm hoping it's the latter."

The girl lets out a small corner smile, shaking her head. I thought she decided on the former—when she extends a hand. "Aysa Kamali."

It takes me a second before I realize what's happening, and I return the gesture, shaking her hand with mine. "Dahlia Gray," I repeat my introduction, "oh, shoot, um, you knew that."

"How old did you say you are, Dahlia?" Aysa asks, taking back her hand, moving along the conversation.

"I'm eighteen." I answer, pushing my wild hair that keeps covering my face. "I'm a senior."

"And you're in high school?" She questions, returning back to her textbook and highlighting the needed texts. She glances back up every once in a while, assuring me that she's still listening.

"Yeah." I nod, "I didn't know about this internship until just recently. That guy, I told you, came into my class and told me about it."

"How come you're eighteen?" She asks, ignoring my comment about Presley. I realize that she doesn't try to entertain small talk, and gets into the information she wants to know. "It's pretty early in the year."

"I'm from Venezuela," I reveal, feeling like I'm in the middle of an interview. We didn't have an interview for the internship, and instead, they're going to give us a trial week. "They put me in ESOL when I came to America, and they didn't think I was ready to proceed to my grade. So, I got held back."

"So you turn nineteen by graduation?" She asks, sparing me another glance. I nod. "I didn't think you were Hispanic; you look white-passing."

"I know," I say, pushing my hair back once more. "I'm half-white. My dad is American and my mom is Venezuelan. I guess I got more of my dad's genes."

She nods, but doesn't continue the conversation. It was like she got all the information she needed.

"What about you?" I prompt, wanting to continue. I don't like the awkward tension. "How old are you?"

She hesitates, parting her lips before she closes them. "I'm twenty," she answers stiffly, finishing the last highlight of the day and closing the textbook in front of her. Her voice tightens. "I'm from Somalia."

I didn't think much about it, and focused on our similarity. "We're both foreigners," I declare with slight amusement in my voice. "Born in another country, found ourselves in the same internship."

She nods, but doesn't add anything. She begins to pick up her textbooks and shove them into her backpack. She cleans up her workspace, wrapping the bag of candy with a rubber band and organizing her stationery back into place.

I stay quiet for a second, not knowing what to say after that. I thought she would've laughed at my comment or added something to keep the flow of the conversation going—but in response was radio silence.

"So, Aysa, how come you left—" My question was cut short when Aysa began to stand from her seat, throwing her backpack over her shoulder. I look down at her outfit—a red, white, and blue sweater overlay with a black denim jacket and black jeans.

"Look." Aysa begins, "I'm the type of girl that enjoys the silence. I don't always need a conversation to fill the air and I don't need friends. I like being alone. I hate small talk. If that's the type of companion you're looking for, then I'm not the right girl for you." She pauses, giving me a once-over, her features stock with impassive. Back to square one. "Are you sure you want me to be your friend?"

The question caught me off-guard, and I opened my mouth, but no answer fell from my lips. She takes note of that and nods, a look of understanding crosses her features. "It's fine, kid, I know I'm not the best type of person for support. I wish you well on your internship and your future endeavors—but I can't say I'm sorry that it's not going to be with me." She pauses, her eyes gloss, "I am who I am."

And she leaves.

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DOMINGO
1:40 PM

Dahlia Gray

After spending the rest of the morning being briefed about our trial week, the development behind SAINT, and introducing us to our supervisors, lunchtime rolled around quicker than expected.

We were dismissed and were told to head off for our lunch break. While everyone scrambles to head to the cafeteria—where we were told everything was free, including the desserts and the sweet shop—I was taking my time admiring the interior of the open building.

It was laced with modern architecture and radiates the energy of the youth. There are designated areas for interns and college students to study and relax, areas for lounging, and open spaces that encourage exercise. (I saw a basketball court a while back).

While a lot of the interns were around my age; a lot of supervisors and employees were in their thirties to forties. Despite this, everyone deserves time to relax and clear their mind.

I descend down the spiral staircase, reaching the cafeteria with a turn. I stood behind in line, waiting as we were shuffled up and greeted the cooks offering a wide range of options. I didn't want to waste anyone's time, and agreed to the first thing they offered—fresh sushi rolls and wasabi.

I thank them and went to grab a drink, a couple of fruits, before I had to make the decision on where to sit.

I look around the large cafeteria, searching for an open seat. A lot of them were saved, for their friends and co-workers. I didn't know anyone I saw, and as I was about to admit defeat and sit alone—I found Aysa sitting across the lounge.

She was consumed in a book, scribbling words with a jolt of her pen and brushing her elbow against the tray of her lunch. It was pushed off to the side, and it barely looks like she took a bite. Her eyes dance back and forth from the textbook to her notebook, rereading and consuming the material like it was oxygen.

I know she made it clear that she doesn't see us being friends, but I decide to ignore her warning. My heart racing in my chest as I walk up to the table, my fingers trembling as I pull the back of the seat, and anxiety pricks at my skin like an afternoon breeze.

She looks up.

Her brows wrinkle in confusion, and she cocks a brow at me. "What are you doing? I thought you didn't—"

"Look," I cut her off, my voice trembling with false confidence as I could feel my heartbeats in my throat. "I know I'm the type of girl who likes to talk—but I like the silence too. I like to be alone—maybe a little too much sometimes." I inhale sharply, soothing my racing heart. I meet her eyes. "I want you to be my friend, Aysa. Do you want me to be yours?"

She looks stunned, and her words don't immediately follow her lips. She opens her mouth, eyes widening and almost looking innocent. "I–" She cuts herself off, clearing her throat. "Are you sure? Like I said, I'm not the type for small talk."

I nod, certain. "I'll have you as authentic as possible. We can sit in silence for hours while you study, and I'll sit in silence listening to music. I'll remind you to eat your lunch, and maybe you could teach me the ropes along the way," I smile softly, to which she slowly replicates. "I'll have you as you'll have me."

The small smile on her lips begins to morph into a full grin, and before long, she nods. "I am who I am," she said.

"And I am who I am," I repeat, my racing heart begins to neutralize. We're friends. "And what we'll do, we'll do it together."

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AVA'S NOTES

thank you so much for waiting, i know it's been nearly two weeks. this chapter was already pre-written but it didn't flow the way i wanted. i just rewrote today. i'm going to post chapter 19 in two days! thank you so much and constructive criticism and feedback is welcome! <3

please vote and comment!!