DOMINGO
8:18 PM

Dahlia Gray

Sometimes, I feel lost.

Truth be told, I think I was always lost. In philosophy, religion, culture. There was a stagnant doubt that clouds me that I could never shake off, no matter how hard I try. In a situation where I was groomed and conditioned through the walls that justify my father's behavior, I find myself unable to rely on what many—like my mother does—for hope.

But, in the stars—in the stars, I can.

I sit on the small balcony of Aysa's apartment, a far unusual location for my stargazing antics. My legs tucked warmly under me, the bare of my naked toes skimming the cool concrete. My head tilted back, eyes skimming the clear night sky with twinkles of dots for stars; I drag my finger, connecting star from star, building constellations and rolling their respected names off my tongue.

The wind whistles as the night approaches, growing colder as time stretches, and the clock ticking down the seconds. While regret comes down on me for not bearing warmer clothes in this weather, I refuse to move an inch from my position, wanting to soak in the moment.

The crisp moments of fresh, breathable air.

I hear the balcony door slides open, rolling on its track, while footsteps approach from behind me. I didn't get the chance to turn around when I felt a thick, wooly blanket plop on my shoulders, closing me in from the cold.

"How long are you planning on staying out here?" Aysa asks, her voice drawn from concern.

I pull my legs from under me, pressing them against my chest and tucking my chin behind my knees. "I don't know," I say quietly, "as long as I can, I guess."

I don't know why I came over, I just knew I needed some time alone. I went from sleeping in the comforts of my own room, in my own bed, under the shelter of a home that was cared for by two lonesome souls to losing my privacy, sharing a bedroom with three others, and living in a house with several additional members. The sudden shift felt suffocating, and I just knew—I needed to get out.

Aysa doesn't respond for a few seconds, but I can hear paper rustling against the wind, as if she brought the book along with her. The romance book she was reading. "Can I join?"

I don't answer. Only opening one end of my blanket as a response, allowing her entrance to tuck in the warmth beside me.

She drags her feet across the small, accessible balcony and plops a seat beside me. Adjusting the large blanket around her shoulders, we form a little cuddle underneath the thick material as I guide my eyes away from the stars and towards the living across the street.

Curtains pulled back and revealing individual apartments of lives I've never witnessed before. Some flicks on their lights, illuminating the apartment in a bright glow, while others are left in pitch darkness. I see couples, singles, and groups of friends in all of their respective homes; dancing, singing, and some just relaxing. Comfortable.

"I feel ungrateful," I confess, releasing a burn in my throat similarly to fingers brushing their tips against hot flames. I knew what I felt was awful, and what I should feel is complete gratitude for all they've done for me, but I don't know. I don't know. "I don't know."

Suffocating. That's one word I could define my situation, but I couldn't hold the power to suggest such language. I don't know how to explain it—I'm so entirely grateful for all the Soberano-Godfrey family has done for me, welcomed me—but I can't fight the emotions brewing in my stomach. Airway clutch to my throat. The feeling that I can't breathe, just like before.

Aysa follows my gaze, alleviating the heat of her stare from burning a hole into my profile, and watches the apartment complex across the street. I won't lie and say I don't feel a tad of jealousy brewing in my stomach, watching those free and careless as they dance across glazed floorings and second-hand furniture. It didn't matter what life holds in that tiny box, just what it can bring.

I want that.

But I can't.

Aysa parts her lips, the side of her profile a perfect replication of a Vogue photoshoot. Her vision stares straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, and her breath hitch in her throat—almost as if she wants to say something, but closes her mouth before they articulate. I tilt my head to the side, laying sideway against the bumps of my knees. "What?"

"How honest do you want me to be?"

The hesitation in my answer startles me, and as a reflection, I found myself parting my lips the same way she did.

I love Aysa, with the way she manages to open my eyes to so many things I wasn't aware of, and I'll always appreciate the way she introduces me to the term emotional abuse and shines a spotlight on my situation—but her honesty is a terrifying concept.

She doesn't hold back, for me, for anyone. She forces you to hear the forthright truth, to listen to what you need to hear, and while I eventually end up appreciating her token of effort, that's not always the case firsthand.

I squint my eyes, wrapping my arms around my legs comfortingly. If her gaze was a light, she'll be comparable to a blazing sun. "How honest are we talking?"

She takes a second in thought. "Enough."

Should I? I contemplate on a variety of options, debating if I'm mentally capable of consuming her opinions without feeling attacked or defensive. After a couple silent seconds of pondering, I nod my head in response.

Aysa inhales a large sigh, almost medicating, leaving my gaze and returning to the front. Watching the slight glimmer of moonlight that casts over the uncovered windows, the slow dances of the couples that bounce on the balls of their feet. Her chest steady rising and falling, eyes moving from unit to unit, almost as if she's preparing herself.

"You're running away."

Attack. The first emotion that runs its course through my veins was a sense of defensiveness. My initial reaction was to object, to ask—what am I running away from? I escaped an abusive household that drained the living soul out of me and is living with a warm and welcoming family that accepted my mother and me with open arms. I'm not running away, I wanted to say, I'm just...I'm something.

But I knew the mistake I made last time; to build a fortress in preparation of an unrequited war, and I wasn't going to do the same this time.

So, I shut up and listen.

Aysa must've predicted my defensive stance, pausing torturously as blood ticks in my ear and sparing a small glance at my direction, before proceeding. "You're running away from Harlow and his family because you're not used to their type of environment."

I look at her through furrowed brows, not fully grasping her concept, "and what environment is that?"

"Being loved unconditionally."

I feel the wind being knocked out of me.

"My mom loves me—"

"I'm not saying she doesn't, I know she does," Aysa pacifies, trying to ease the defensive position I took upon myself, "but I'm saying I think you feel the need to run away from them because you need time alone. To process."

She finally turns to meet my gaze, her posture mimics mine, wrapping her arms around her legs. Her thumb running against skin-exposed knees, soothing her own pulsing thoughts. "All your life, you're used to a quiet home with a father who doesn't give you any love and a mother who gives you all of hers. It's an unhealthy dynamic. Now, you're suddenly in a home with nine other people and all of them care about you in some form or another. Your existence is important to them, and you're no longer an extension to love but a choice to care. You're not used to feeling love wholeheartedly."

"It's just...it's so much coming at you at the same time, everything collapsing on you like a falling building that you don't have the chance to react. So, you do the only thing that makes sense, the one thing designed in all humans—flight."

The passion in her voice carried a thought on its own, separate from my issues. It's almost as if she was speaking from experience. "It's not a bad thing," she says, like she's trying to convince herself, "everyone does it. Sometimes, some things get too much, and you just need a breather."

She pauses, hesitating, as her air is lodged in the back of her throat, before she adds quietly, "everyone does it."

I don't say anything. It didn't take a genius to discover the true meaning behind her words. She's too close to miss it, but too far that the words almost slip away along with the colors of the wind.

Because, here on out, Aysa Kamali—studious achiever, incredulous romance reader, and calculative decisions—is acting in a way that is not the 'best' for a situation.

"Like me?" I repeat, a sigh of relief exits my chest. I don't know why, but it feels so good to have someone on the same boat. "You're like me?"

"I'm human, kid, of course I am," she scoffs, trying to minimize the situation as something insignificant. When that's not the case—at least to me it isn't. Aysa Kamali is a figure you can idolize, a candidate on a pedestal, the perfect role model for your children. For her to act somewhat in relation to me, a nineteen year old child that acts on impulse and hindsight decisions, makes me feel okay.

That I'm doing okay.

"I know, but—" I can't help but release another relieving breath. I could almost crack a smile. "It's okay. It's okay."

I could see Aysa loosen the stiffness around her shoulders and release the tension gripping her jaw. A small smile cracks from the corner of her perfect lips and she shakes her head minimally. "You've been okay."

But loneliness is another existence in a field of okays. "And you're okay too."

I raise my head, meeting her temporal gaze, while still having both my arms wrapped around my legs like a child clinging onto a teddy bear. Aysa positions herself defensively, her feet pointing the opposite direction.

We don't say anything for the pause of the moment, allowing everything to sink through. Inhaling a large, finally-deserving breath, I allow the weight on my shoulders to slip.

"What are you running away from?" I ask quietly, turning to Aysa with anticipation for her answer. Maybe I needed more clearance, more verification that I'm not alone. It's a selfish excuse, but I think she also needs this as much as I do.

She holds her breath, "the pressure," she says, adding a small humorless laugh to rid of the tense atmosphere. It didn't work. "Funny, right? The one thing I thought I could handle, I feel like it's eating me alive."

I choose my words carefully. "From your parents?"

"No," she shakes her head once, sinking, "myself."

I don't respond. I can't relate to that. The only pressure I've felt for myself as from my father, and nothing more. The pressure to leave him, to drive, the pressure of him. Suppose I did put it on myself, and perhaps I unintentionally file myself for unnecessary stress—I don't think Aysa and I are on the same playing field.

"I told you my father wanted to be a civil engineer, and he never got that opportunity." It wasn't a question. "I think, sometimes, I put this pressure on myself to fulfill that hollow dream. To say that—if he can't get in physically, his skin and blood can."

She sighs deeply, nails clawing on the edges of her book. "Maybe that's why I choose to leave, to run away. I've always convinced myself that I needed the independent space in order to function properly, but it's the look on his face. It's always going to be the look on his face. The guilt I feel when I'm so close to becoming what he could ever dream of, but not quite there yet."

And there I realize: it's not the same. It's similar, our paths of running away, is similar but not quite exact. I don't know whether to feel appreciation or disappointment.

"You're going to be a great civil engineer." I say, in hopes of easing her mind. I'm not going to lie, I know she can be—she can accomplish anything she sets her mind to—but I also feel that, deep down, this is not exactly who she wants to be.

I'm not sure she knows that.

But unlike her honesty, I can't say that.

She smiles softly, her pearly white teeth shown through the crookedness of her smile, and she doesn't peek another word. Her mind lost in a thousand racing thoughts, and her eyes daze from its clear, usual brown.

"Anyways, with you—"

"We don't have to get into that—" I assure her, waving a hand.

"No," she shakes her head, "we have to be honest with ourselves." She declares solemnly, when I know that's not the case. This retelling confirms it. Aysa may be reassured about her thoughts, her experience and her past and future, but I think deep down, she's hiding and hurting the same way.

I don't respond and allow her the opportunity to give me her definition of my truth. While I finished and gathered enough about myself to connect the final dots, I don't think helping me is the true objective anymore. I think this is a cop-out from expressing how she truly feels—because while she's okay with preaching vulnerability, she's not okay with being vulnerable herself.

"You need..." She trails off, trying to slip away from her own struggles, "...your own apartment."

She piqued my interest.

"And I," she exhales a large sigh, slipping out from under the warm blanket and raising to her feet with a book in hand. Extending a hand to me, "am going to help you."

I wearily stare at her offer, wondering if there's some psychological trick meant to foil this entire operation. If I accept the hand like the pomegranate seeds of Hades' tricks—but as the opportunity unfolds, I take her hand and allow her to guide me to the sole of my feet, taking the blanket in my uplifting.

Aysa turns to me, offering me a small smile, still tainted with the memories of her internal thoughts. "Are you ready?"

It's a coping mechanism, I figure. A way to move from the past, or move from her guilt. I don't know exactly which is which. What I do know is Aysa isn't ready to talk about it, and I'm never one to force it out of someone. So, in her precedent on wanting to change the topic and focus the spotlight on me, I take her offer.

"As long as I don't have to read those sex scenes from your dark romance, I think I'll be fine."

And she playfully hits my shoulder with said book, a real laugh escapes her before she drags me back in the warmth of her apartment.

━━━━━

JUEVES
12:56 AM

Dahlia Gray

To say I was surprised to find Harlow sitting at the front of his deck, waiting for me, would be a lie.

His fingers flicking the lighter in his hands, on and off, but not a spotted cigarette in sight. Inhaling a sharp breath, not a scent of lingering nicotine forms a bubble around him, and his expression is looser, softer, scared.

"It's almost one am," I try to reason, hoping to get him inside, noting the shivers prodding from his shoulders and his thin cotton black hoodie that barely insulates him from the breeze of the cold. I was lucky enough to wear a thick crewneck I stole from Aysa—Harlow, on the other hand, did not.

"You weren't home yet," he defends, not budging from his spot as his fingers mechanically flicks on the lighter with the brush of his thumb, a lick of flame dancing against the wind. Is that what we're calling it now? He shifts in his spot, leaving a small gap for me to take a seat.

I let out a little scoff, because underneath all that has happened to us, he's still that stubborn boy I met at the park bench.

Nonetheless, I crawled up the small steps and took the spot beside him, intertwining my fingers on my lap and staring ahead to the pitch, empty void of landscape. My cab drove away in the distance, screeching on turns, before leaving the neighborhood completely.

We don't say anything, a silence that's familiar with us. I try my hardest not to spare him a sideway glance, but with my heart betraying me and a slight turn of my head, I spot Harlow already three steps ahead of me; admiring me with a silent but adoring gaze.

I blush under his scrutiny, a phantom smile dancing across my lips as I try to cover from his gaze—my heart racing a thousand miles per hour. The thumping of my heartbeat in my ears, my skin burning; everything to signify how much he means to me.

"You're so fucking cute," he compliments, causing my blush to darken a scarlet red.

"Don't...don't do that," I whisper quietly, feeling his fingers clasping around my wrists, pulling my hands from my face. The slow peel allows me to catch the small of his features—the tip of his unruly brown hair, that highlights with a glister of golden under the moonlight, the thickness of his brows that I remember running the brush of my thumb over, and the clear hues of his eyes. Everything that makes Harlow, him.

When he pulls away my shield, we take a moment of silence to hold each other's gaze. While Harlow is staring deeply into the ordinary of my brown eyes, I'm noticing everything and more about his blue ones. The storm of his eyes brewing with the delicacy of crystals, appeasing to who he is—sharp, fragile and delicate.

I'm completely and utterly mesmerized by him; and if he was a star, I would admire him all day and night.

"Hi," I greet with a breath, breaking our vehement silence.

He smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkles, "hey."

I suppress a grin threatening to show, because I knew I would be beaming like the rays of a thousand suns. Instead, I glance down at his forgotten touch, no longer occupied between the flicks of a lighter, and pick up his hand, interlacing our fingers together; the mold of puzzle pieces returning back to each other.

Positioning myself back to facing the front, I calm my racing heart that screams in high volume: I'm alive. I'm happy and alive.

"I have something to tell you." I announce, wanting to officiate the good news—or what I believe is the good news.

"Me too."

"Oh," that surprises me, turning back to face him with wrinkling brows, "then you go first."

He shakes his head, his eyes tracing my features to detect the mood of this announcement, whether I'll be bawling in tears or coming down with cries of joy. "No, you go ahead."

"No, my news is pretty big, it should be last."

"Mine too," he rebuttals, determination flashes through his stormy eyes. I don't think we're going to back down.

"No—" I start, before Harlow cuts me off by using his free hand to cup my chin, his thumb holding my chin and his other finger brazing my jaw. The placement unconsciously part my lips, while his eyes are stern and his expression complete. He truly did captivate me whole.

I swallow hard—actually, I struggle swallowing. My heart is hammering in my ears like I was standing next to a rock band, my skin burns from his touch and my English no longer was coherent enough to process my speech. "Yo...yo..." I...I... I grimace, with squinting eyes, trying to translate the thought. "Te juro que estás haciendo tan difícil hablar ahora mismo." I swear you are making it so difficult to talk right now.

He cracks me a smile, making me believe that he understands me.

"Take your time," he said, like a response to my statement. For a