Please remember, it takes more than a pulse and a pair of working lungs to call a life living.

— Beau Taplin

The first time his gaze falls on her, she looks like any other girl to him. The dimming light from the sunset filters into the hospital room through the small window to his right. The pink of the sky gives way to purple as the sun slowly dips down the horizon, its feeble orange rays casting a golden hue against her pale skin. She tilts her head, the black waves of her hair cascading forward to shield her eyes, like a midnight sky on an endless ocean.

For any other man, her obsidian orbs alone could be bewitching enough, speaking daring words that her speechless lips are holding back. But he is not any other man, and thus to him she looks like any other girl.

His thoughts continue to flick between his past and present, like a pendulum in unrest. The accident has left him with amnesia— his recent memories are gone like sand blown away by the wind. His head hurts and his body is numb, but the enormous cast wrapped around his leg is preventing him from moving.

What strange strategies God uses to run this world, he thinks. He's a king, sitting on His throne up in the sky, messing with whoever He wants, like He has just cut his wings and ruined him. His heart wails at the tragedy, but his face remains passive.

She drags a chair, getting back his attention, and sits beside his bed. They stare at each other silently, the air between them still and full of oblivion. He regards her sharply, studying her carefully, and she is not once repelled away by his hawk like eyes. He becomes aware of one thing: she is not a shy girl; she is a quiet girl. And quiet is way more dangerous than shy— it is powerful. This makes him ill at ease.

So he decides to be the first one to slice the tension.

"Who are you?"

His voice comes out hoarse and drained of life. He is sure it doesn't remind her of dark chocolate or smooth velvet.

"I'm your friend."

Her voice is calm and full of life; it reminds him of hope and faith. He cringes mentally.

"I don't remember you," he says, and she smiles fleetingly.

"I know. You've no memory of your last few months, as the doctor has examined you and told you. But he also says it could be temporary since your head injury isn't so severe."

"And my leg? How bad is it?"

He looks down at the cast again; it scares him. She follows his eyes.

"Very bad," she answers honestly. "But you need not to worry. You'll be able to walk again just fine in about two months, with a little rehabilitation."

He chuckles ironically, his pupils dilating at the information, as if two months were equivalent to two days. Unfortunately for him, he's more of a realist than an optimist.

"How did the accident happen?" he inquires.

"You were paragliding, and there was a steering error."

"Were you with me?"

"No. Your butler called me after the accident, since you have no one else here."

"So my father doesn't know about it?"

She shakes her head and he heaves a sigh of relief. He cannot afford additional drama in his already dramatic life.

"When did we meet?" he asks yet another question.

"Three months ago."

"Where?"

She hesitates, gingerly reaching out to touch his forearm and squeezing it in a gesture of solace. "I know you probably have a million queries about everything— about me. But you shouldn't be tiring yourself." She pulls back, folding her hands in her lap. "How are you feeling now though?"

"Dizzy," he answers huskily.

"This must be the painkillers."

He hums. "When can I go back home?"

"Soon. They just need to run a few more tests to make sure you're stable before they discharge you."

He turns his head to the other side, closing his eyes. He doesn't want to doze off, but he finds himself falling into a slumber slowly.

"I'll go get myself a coffee." She stands up. "Do you need something?"

"No, thank you. I'm not hungry."

"I'll get you something too," she states rather defiantly.

He looks back at her in resignation, the corner of his mouth pulling back into a half smile, having no energy to protest. "Not soup," he requests instead.

The amused glint in her irises at his response make them sparkle. She nods, walking around his bed towards the door.

"Wait," he speaks urgently, suddenly remembering something.

She stops, turning back towards him.

"You didn't tell me your name."

She locks his eyes, letting the seconds tick by, and he feels like drowning into the black of them, bit by bit. Her eyes have secrets in them, dense and obscure, but captivating nonetheless, like stars in the eternal universe.

"Leyla," she says.

Leyla. It repeats itself in his head over and over again, until he sees a silver line of familiarity between them— so faint, barely noticeable.

"My name is Burq," he tells her.

She suppresses a smile, but her expression colors softly. "I know."

And she leaves.

Of course she knows. It is him with memory loss, not her.

He stares after her, a strange mist enveloping his mind. She's like a silhouette to him in that mist, where he can only trace her but still miss the details. Why is it that she is both something in his reach but still out of reach? Something about her disturbs his being— like he's missing an integral detail.

How unfortunate, he thinks to himself. He remembers his younger brother getting married to the love of his life; he remembers fighting his only sibling and his father; he remembers leaving home. But he doesn't remember this girl who he met only three months ago and who is still so kind to him. He should've remembered her instead.

But he doesn't.

Life is unfair. God is unfair: having taken everything from him already, He still decided to make him a handicap, be it temporarily. This is cruel. And then they say God is the most beneficent and merciful. Is He?

If he had to lose his memory, why not the last few years than the present? Where he both fell in love and had his heart broken. He wants those memories gone instead.

His hands fist the bedsheet. All his thoughts are swirling in his head like a whirlpool; he feels stuck in them. This hurricane is scaring him.

"I thought you might have fallen asleep by now," she says, appearing again in front of him. Her voice lulls his turmoil— it brings him serenity.

"I couldn't," he responds to her.

She gazes at him, but doesn't question him. "I've brought you almond milk and a sandwich. You need to eat healthy to heal quickly."

"Thank you," he mumbles.

She adjusts his bed and helps him sit up, putting a pillow behind his back.

"Here. Can you eat yourself?"

He moves his bandaged arm carefully, checking if it hurts, and then nods. She puts a small tray on his lap with his food.

He eats quietly while she sits back on the chair beside his bed, drinking her coffee. But now she has a book in her hand that has her attention. He tries to read the name on the cover but it's not visible, partly thanks to his blurred vision— he isn't wearing his glasses after all. So he looks out at the night sky instead.

The sun is long gone, the ink black sky having swallowed any signs of it. Outside the window, the city lights glow in the darkened world, appearing like fireflies. He wishes to go out there and walk on the beach. He wishes... to walk.

Feeling neglected and bored, his sight finds Leyla again. "What are you reading?" he asks her.

She takes a sip of her coffee, holding up the book cover to him. To Kill A Mockingbird, his blurred vision reads.

"What is it about?" he inquiries more.

"About the judgmental and racist characters of us humans," she replies. "I like outspoken books talking about human flaws, like how they affect justice in this book."

He smirks. "So you're one of those liberator women," he comments, a little derisively.

She catches onto his snide, her orbs hardening like marbles. He instantly regrets his statement.

She closes her book, leaning forward towards him. "I'm a woman who believes in doing what's right, even if it means standing against the world."

For a flicker of a second, he's fascinated with the fire in her eyes. But he's quick to shake it off.

"A lot of things in this world are just illusions, Leyla. And you cannot bring every illusion to life," he tells her, taking a moment to taste her name on his tongue. It feels like a first time yet his tongue delivers it smoothly, as if familiar with it.

"Honesty is never an illusion," she says, smiling now. "Do you know what births these illusions, Burq?"

He cannot answer her, more concentrated on his name that her lips have said so effortlessly, as if she is used to saying it too— as if she has known him all her life.

"I'll tell you," she begins in front of his silence. "These flaws we dress in silk and gold, they only beautify our bodies. So the body becomes an illusion, now does it not? But appearances can never be the definitions of characters."

"We're all born different, some better than the others," he argues, feeling targeted for some reason. After all, his status and class can very well be compared to silk and gold too, beautifying him more than how good he actually is.

"Ah, I see. We've a difference of opinion here." She chuckles lightly, dissolving the tension into nothingness. "What does better mean to you? Please tell me."

"I'd rather hear your opinion," he dodges her question.

She hums, tapping her chin. "I believe we're all born equal— color, race, or wealth do not define us. Yes, but we grow differently: some with hearts of gold, others have theirs turn into coal."

"An interesting perspective here," he dismisses, taking her for a woman living in a fantastical world. Life is a tragedy, she might find out soon.

She doesn't speak about it anymore and leans back into her chair, taking another sip of her coffee. He observes her curiously, and she lets him watch, hiding a smile behind her cup.

"You won't be able to sleep tonight with the caffeine in your system," he informs her, gesturing towards her coffee.

"I don't plan to. I've work to do."

"Oh? What is is it?"

She shakes her head, standing up, letting his query float unanswered. She removes his tray, putting it on the table at a side.

"You should get some sleep now." She helps him lie back down, adjusting his blanket over him. "I should get going. Good night, Burq."

He holds her wrist before she could leave, suddenly feeling alone. He is drained by that feeling already; he doesn't want it anymore.

She looks down at him, gently tugging her wrist free, holding up her hand to her chest.

"Stay, Leyla," he whispers. "It's dark outside, and inside of me too."

The last part is meant only for him, never meant to said aloud, but he did before he could stop himself. And from the shift of her expression once more, he knows she has heard him.

He is not usually a man to request, but he takes the bruise to his ego. Maybe just this once he can be vulnerable.

Her lips part, a sardonic countenance giving away her concern for him— her care.

As if reading his musings, she smiles tenderly at him, letting her fingers find his touch again as she holds his hand.

"I'm here. I'm with you."

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