I knew Khalil was drunk by the way he stumbled when he took a step towards me.

He seemed to instantly notice my apprehension, the way I tensed my body and leaned away. It's not that I was scared of him, I was just wary. He straightened himself, holding his hands out in front of him, as if to say I come in peace.

"Why are you here?" I repeated. I heard the way my voice sounded, and it didn't sound nice, or welcoming.

Khalil and I have never been close. He was one of Jesse's closest friends, Brett's too. After that night, their friendships seemed to fall apart. Slowly, but surely. It wasn't until last month that he distanced himself from them, and by association me, completely. He no longer met with us, he no longer checked in. I saw him occasionally at parties, but he didn't say hi anymore.

Instead of Brett, Jesse and Khalil being on the same team, Khalil was on a team all on his own now it seemed. I don't know why. I don't know if he was trying to separate himself from us, afraid of what was going to happen if people started to put the pieces together. I don't know if they had an argument, or a disagreement. It didn't really matter to me, so I never asked. I didn't care if Khalil was in my life or not.

"I... didn't think you'd be here." Khalil said finally, and from the surprised look on his face, I believed him. That didn't answer any question, however, it just made this scenario even more curious.

"What?" I asked him, demanding for a further explanation. I ran my eyes over him again as if I was trying to search for clues to his mysterious behaviour. He looked different than the last time we spoke. His jet black hair had been longer, it was now a buzz cut. He looked skinnier, too. He's lost definition in the muscles he had. His tan skin looked paler, and he wasn't as well put together as usual.

When he didn't answer, I continued. "Why are you here? How do you know where I live?"

Khalil still wore the same expression, the same surprised mixed with confusion. It felt like he was debating whether to flee the scene or not.

"Jesse told me where you lived last year," he said simply, answering only the least important of my questions.

"Okay." I looked past him, trying to see if anyone was else was here. There wasn't, not that I expected there to be. I was just so lost, I was searching for any clue I could find.

"I, uh, I was going to leave this with your mom." Khalil stuttered the words out, reaching forward with one of his hands. There was a white envelope in it that I hadn't noticed before.

I felt my face crease in confusion as I took it from him. I looked down and examined it in my hands. It was sealed, with no clues of its contents. The only thing on the envelope was my name, written in messy, small printing.

I heard Khalil's footsteps, causing me to look back up. He had turned his back to me, and was quickly walking down my driveway. I thought about calling after him, trying to get his attention and demanding he explain what this was, but I had a feeling he wouldn't stop.

I shut the door instead, still not understanding what was happening. Once the door was closed, I leaned back against it. I was completely mystified. I cautiously began to open the envelope, my fingers moving slowly like they weren't sure they really wanted to be obeying my brain's commands to move.

Once the seal was broken, I peaked into the pocket of paper. There was another piece of paper inside, folded up tightly into a rectangle. I pulled it out, letting the envelope fall to the ground. Opening it carefully, I could quickly see it was a printed out news article. There was a picture of a smashed up boat on it, and multiple paragraphs of tiny black print.

I knew what it was about without reading it. I felt the sinking feeling inside my stomach instantly, the anxiety my chest was already filled with heightened. Why was Khalil giving me this article? What if my mom had opened it? Why was he reminding me? Was he trying to intimidate me? Was he trying to remind me just how much pressure they had over us?

Was Khalil saying the same thing that Jesse and Brett have been telling me and Clara? Was he telling us to keep our mouth shut? What could Khalil possibly want from me?

I clenched my jaw together as I forced the piece of paper into a ball. I crumpled it between my fingers, hearing the satisfying sounds of the paper bending. I took a deep breath, marching back to my room. I wanted to throw the article out, never think of it again. I couldn't do that though. There was always the possibility of my mom finding it in the trash. Instead, I opened my underwear drawer. I moved around the various pairs of undergarments, stashing the ball of paper in the very back.

I closed my eyes as I shut the drawer. I tried to slow my breathing. I breathed through my nose and out through my mouth like those internet articles on How To Help Anxiety said.

Those articles were full of shit. They didn't help. They were useless.

I threw my robe off in haste, ripping the pyjamas off my body. I threw on the first outfit I put my hands on. I didn't even bother to brush my hair before I had my shoes on. I clenched my fists as I walked through my house. I didn't bother to lock the door as I slammed it shut behind me. I could only think about this horrible feeling that was erupting in my stomach.

I think it was panic.

I knew where I needed to go. It's the only place that helps me calm down. My body started running before my brain gave those commands, as if it knew better than I did. As if it knew we didn't have time to wait. I felt the slapping of my shoes against the pavement. My limbs didn't seem to tire as they normally would, maybe because it had a new energy source to fuel them... my anxiety and panic was like gas to an engine.

I stopped as I reached my destination. There were people on the sidewalk, looking at me with judgment written clearly on their faces as I turned towards the mural. It was painted on the back of a convenience store in the middle of this shitty neighbourhood. I don't know who painted it, I don't know why they painted it. All I know is that the way it was painted calmed me down.

I sat down on the sidewalk, not caring about the copious amounts of dust that would no doubt stick to my pants for the rest of the day. People looked away from me, pointing their eyes in any direction besides me. They probably thought I was on drugs, and I can't blame them. A normal person wouldn't sit down on a busy sidewalk to stare at a spray painted picture.

I reminded myself to breathe as I traced the mural with my eyes. It was of a woman, standing with her back towards a crowd of people. Her hair was long and brown, and it was flowing over her shoulder. She wore a white dress that stood out brilliantly against the red bricks of the building, and I imagined it to be made of silk, because of the way it trailed behind her just perfectly. I felt my heart rate decrease as I looked towards the flower in her hand. It was a lilly, a bright pink one.

I don't know why I was drawn towards this mural, beside the obvious reference to my nickname. I think it was because the woman looked so peaceful, although her face was blank. The artist drew no features on it, but I imagined her face to hold a look of serenity. She wasn't concerned with the rest of the world. She was only concerned with herself.

Maybe I felt the opposite. I wasn't concerned with myself, I was only concerned with the rest of the world.

I was only there for a minute or two, before I was interrupted. Was five minutes of peace really too much to ask for?

I saw him before I heard him. I saw the way he noticed me as he walked out of the store beside me. I watched as he stopped in his tracks, doing a double take back towards me. I saw his confusion. I didn't even have time to wonder what he was doing in this part of town before he began walking over to me.

I wanted to get up and walk away, and I would have tried if he hadn't of been so close to me. So instead, I remained as still as possible, as though he wouldn't be able to see me if I didn't move.

I expected him to stop a few feet from me. I expected him to peer down at me, the same judgment on his face that everyone else passing me on the street wore. I expected him to ask me what I was doing.

I didn't expect him to sit down next to me. I had to will my eyes not to flick over to him, the question in my eyes readable as any book; what are you doing? I trained my eyes on my favourite part of the mural, as if I was having a staring contest with the faceless woman.

I felt as he steadied himself beside me, crossing his ankles and holding up each of legs with the corresponding arms, his hands clasped in middle. I waited for him to speak, but he didn't. He didn't say anything at all.