I was never capable of restraint. Not a fibre of my being would hold back; an unbroken struggle to stay afloat when every bit of sensation would try to drown me.

There were six varieties of coffee in your kitchen but you're still heading out to the café 15 minutes away from your flat. Your skin was paper white as you stepped out the rainy Thursday morning. You shivered as you walk, revelling at the rhythm the water makes on your umbrella. Soon you stop on a curb as you wait out the traffic. Your mind took off from the half-written book in your study as you glimpsed at her.

She's leaning her cheek against the bus window. The droplets of rain on the glass distorted her image. She looked thoughtfully melancholic. Her sadness was breathtakingly beautiful, you decided. You don't know her name but it felt like you knew her even before you can speak your first words. She's passion. She's fire. She's lust. She's Red in this miserable, grey world.

She didn't see you on the sidewalk but you saw her. And you will never be the same again. That Kerouac line stuck with you as the bus started to pass.

'A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too big world.'

The bus took a left and she's gone. You were still there, feeling as if life itself passed you by. You crossed the street and realized you frequently felt like that lately. You arrived at the café and ordered latte, then took a seat by the window.

You reached for a pen in your coat and a bunch of napkins that went with your coffee. You start to scribble furiously, your mind clearing, reaching for the right words to leave your hand.

It's an uncanny habit to give my heart out to chaos, but the damaged ones had always been the most beautiful. There is majesty in a lionhearted lamb.

You vaguely forget about her. You hurdled pass your writer's block and you had been writing nonstop for two days. You only halt for a meal or a trip to the bathroom. You don't sleep. Not really. The words won't let you until you've written them down.

You stay in your flat the majority of time. You only leave out of necessity; Stock up on groceries, buy new supplies for your study, a change in atmosphere. But there were rare occasions you go out to attend social gatherings.

One starless Saturday night, you put on an outfit. It's for an exhibit at the gallery. You knew nothing of the contemporary art scene but the artist is your publisher's son so you go.

You hated it, as you expected. Not the artworks, they were descent, but the socializing. Faces of different authors and artists went on a blur; they ask you about your work, you respond in a short, polite answer, and you ask them about theirs. It's clockwork.

'Ah Naomi, how's your novel going?'

'Still working on it.'

'Been a while since you've written anything new, is that right?'

'Two years, yeah. I'm taking my time on this one. Congratulations on the new novel by the way.'

'Ah yes, yes, it's quite fascinating what the critiques are calling it so far. The Guardian thought it's a masterpiece that honestly depicts the struggles…'

You leave after an hour and you felt like yourself again. People do that to you. The night was dry and you walk to clear the fog in your brain. You haven't gone that far when a commotion across the street caught your attention. A man in a black car was arguing with a woman leaning by his window. They talked urgently, the man angrily hitting his horn before driving away.

Your feet stopped when you saw the woman's face. It was her. She cursed and hugged her arms around herself. She's wearing light clothing: short blue dress and high heels. Her teeth chattered. You had three layers on.

This time she saw you. Her eyes lingered because you were openly staring across the deserted street. You both held that position for a minute. She studied you, looked from left to right, and then crossed the street.

'All right?' Her voice was sand. You nodded. She had thick make up on. It reminded you of a theatre actress. 'It's 150 pounds for half an hour.'

You blinked. Wanted to give her your coat. But you nodded again, no questions. She was surprised you agreed at her first price.

'There's a place just a minute away. It's 20 pounds for a room.' Her voice was business-like. She had done this before, countless of times to be this nonchalant, and it broke your heart.

'We can go back to my flat,' you heard yourself say.

'And where is that?' You told her and she instantly shook her head. 'That's too far, I'll have to take a taxi to get back here.'

'I'll pay you double.' Her dark suspicious eyes roamed your frame so you added, 'for your trouble.'

The offer was too good to pass up and next thing you know, she's in the back of a taxi with you. The driver eyed you through the side view mirror. He didn't say a thing but his look clearly depicted his thoughts.

You stepped off to your quiet street and lead her to your flat, silently impressed with yourself how you're handling such a foreign situation.

'You're minted,' she observed as you stepped in the foyer. You shrug in reply. 'Where's the loo?'

You pointed down the hall to the right. She disappeared behind the bathroom door and you went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. You stared at the reflection of you on the kettle's shiny surface, trying to figure out the next development in this random plot you had set yourself in.

She returned just as the water boiled. She had removed her makeup and she was herself again, you thought. She saw you making tea and raised an eyebrow.

'Your time started when we got in the taxi,' she reminded you.

'That's alright.' You took out the sugar and honey. 'Tea?'

In your relief, she accepted. She put three cubes of sugar and a spoon of honey.

'What's your name?'

She shrugged, raised the cup to her lips and sipped. 'You can call me anything you want.'

'Your real name. I'd love to call you that.'

'Is this your first time picking up a slapper off the street?' she asked. 'Because you don't have to be polite, and offer tea, and pretend to be interested. This is not a fucking date.'

'Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.'

She looked at you, clueless at what to do with your apology.

'It's Emily,' she admonished. It suits her, you decided.

'It means rival,' you said, out of habit. 'Emily Dickinson was an exceptional poet.'

'I know. The rival part I mean. We don't discuss American poets in class.'

'You're in school?'

She visibly stiffened at your question. You can see how she quickly regretted volunteering the information. 'Yeah. No. Maybe.'

'You don't have to worry. I don't mean any harm.'

'What are you?' Realization was dawning on her. 'Fuck me, are you one of those fucking head doctors?' She was angry at you for deceiving her but angrier at herself for not picking up the clues. 'Fuck sake, I should have known. I mean look at you in that dress, this place. The bloody books in the hallway.'

'I'm not a psychologist. I'm a writer.'

'Same thing honey.' she started to leave, furious movements. 'I'm not a fucking tragedy you can confine in a story. And fuck you for thinking that.'

'I don't. That's not my intention.' You follow her as she goes to the door. 'I've seen you before.'

The little piece of information stopped her from leaving, her hand stilled on the door knob. 'Where?'

'You were in the bus. I saw you from the street. That was two weeks ago.'

'So? First time to see a fucking bus passenger?'

'No,' you answered the rhetorical question. 'You intrigued me.'

'How?'

'You look like you just got your heart broken. There was nothing heart breaking about it though, just the idea of never seeing you again. You were beautiful. You still are.'

'Are you shitting me?'

'No. You had a yellow jumper and a green scarf on. It reminded me of Christmas.'

You can see how your words inflicted mayhem within her.

'I've got to go,' she said in the end, pulling at the door in a hurry.

'I haven't given you your money yet.'

'We haven't done anything.'

'I still want to pay you.'

'Keep it, I don't want it.'

She closed the door behind her with force. You don't follow her, don't think she'd appreciate that. So you let her go. Out your life again.

Sometimes a chance encounter is all it takes to change your life forever. It is the most terrifying and exhilarating idea. My bones shake in constant anticipation.

You don't see her for months and you fell back to your aloof and erratic behaviour. You didn't forget about her though, even when you were writing (especially when you're writing). She has stained your dreams in a regular interval.

Your third encounter happened in the middle of September, when the amount of daylight was rapidly decreasing, just like your hope of seeing her again. But there she was, sitting under a tree by the park. She's wearing enough clothes, barely a touch of makeup, her hair longer but still of fiery colour, half-concealed in a beanie. She looked up when your shadow casted over her textbook.

Cautiously you say, 'Emily, hi. I don't know if you remember me-'

'It's you.' She tapped her pen against her book. Agitated, you noted. 'Are you stalking me or something?'

'No. I wouldn't.'

'What do you want?'

'Just to see how you are. I was walking by and saw you.'

'If I'm still selling myself to kerb walkers?'

'N- no.'

'Look, I don't want your pity or charity for whatever the fuck you think I am. Just because you know one fucked up thing about me doesn't mean you know me. The idea in your mind who I might be? I'm not.'

'I didn't-' your heart clenched at how purposely hurtful she's being. 'I never passed judgment,' you tell her quietly. 'I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'll be on my way.'

You've made four strides when she called you back. 'Wait.' You turn around. She's biting her lower lip, her thumb clicking at her push pen rapidly. 'Come back.'

You sat down next to her, the ground cool against your jeans. She studied you before asking, 'Who are you?'

'My name's Naomi.'

'You're really a writer?'

'I am.'

'What do you write?'

'This and that, a little bit of everything.'

'Well, what are you writing now?' she insisted.

'I'm working on my third book.'

'What is it about?'

'I don't know yet. It changes every day.'

You can see she's still sceptical. 'What's the title of your two books?'

'Down the River to the Rapids. Second one's Sans Soleil.'

'No shit, you're N. J. Campbell?'

'I – I am.'

'Wow, you're like young. I was expecting N. J. Campbell to be old, 40 at least.'

You don't know how to respond so you ask her, 'You're still in school?'

'Yeah,' she replied, closing her book. 'I suppose I am.'

'What do you study?'

'This and that, a little bit of everything.'

She grinned and the word elfin erupted like fireworks in your whirring brain. You felt your knees shake with blind affection.

'Would you like to go to dinner with me?'

You surprised her. 'You're fucking bizarre you know that, N. J. Campbell?'

'I'd rather you call me Naomi.'

'Alright Naomi, you're fucking bizarre you know that?'

'So you tell me.'

You don't say anything else, wait for her answer. Her eyes conveyed a thousand words. Intrigued won out.

'Fuck it. Sure, I'd like to go to dinner with you.'

Your passion seeps through your skin to mine, forever staining me. It's a terminal disease and I lay awake at night for Death to take me.

You had dinner in a pub near your place that you both never been before. She ordered the steak and kidney pudding. You had fish and chips. She told you it's her last year in uni studying Education. It was her English teacher in Year 5 that inspired her.

'I want to be around kids,' she said, sipping on her beer. 'In those formative years, it's important the world is painted in a positive light, that all their dreams are possible. I want to motivate them that they can be anyone they want to be.'

You nod, thinking her students would be the luckiest kids in the world. 'Yeah,' you say instead. 'They cushion the blow of what life throws at you.'

'You like kids then?'

'Not really. I didn't even like them when I was one.'

'You're right perky.' She smiled, the most real one she's given you so far. 'And you, have you always wanted to be a writer?'

'I've always written but it wasn't much later that I thought I can pursue it as a career. I'm just lucky my stories were deemed publishable.'

'Maybe you're not giving yourself enough credit. You had two bestsellers. That's well impressive.'

'Like I said, luck.'

'You're real shit in accepting compliments, you know that?'

'So you tell me.'

'You're not much of a talker too. I thought writers are always proper eloquent and stuff.'

'Sorry.' You duck your head. 'Am I boring you?'

'No. I didn't say it was a bad thing. Just an observation.'

'That's why I write I suppose. I function better that way.'

'Are we going to start passing notes across the table?' she teased.

You faintly smiled then reached for a napkin and a pen in your coat. She watched indulgently as you scribble something with your lethargic hand. You pushed it towards her.

'Your intensity makes me nervous in ways I can't fathom.'

I fell for your smile. A free fall that cannot be undone; the hard ground swoop up to meet me.

It was the fourth time you got together (she refuses to call it a date and you were never particular on labels anyway) that she opened up about her 'side job'.

'It's last resort when I can't make ends meet. It's the fastest way to earn rent money,' she smiled but neither of you found it humorous. 'I don't know what else to say about that.'

'You don't have to explain yourself to me really. You do what you got to do to survive. You are a survivor Emily, and I can barely call myself that.'

She looked like she was going to kiss you. You waited but the moment passed. She proceeded to scan your living room with the inquisitive eyes of a toddler; the lack of photographs and sentimental pieces were evident.

'Don't you have family?'

'I have a mum. She lives in Goa with her boyfriend.'

'Exotic.'

'She's rather eclectic, yes.'

'How about friends?'

'No.'

'Isn't that lonely?'

'It's lonelier being in a room with people you don't like.'

'You don't like everybody then?'

'I like you.'

'Why?'

Without thinking, 'My heart feels right when I'm with you.'

'Oh.' She played with her thumb ring. It felt like an eternity and a day when she spoke again. Barely a whisper, 'I like you too.'

How is it possible that the more you unravel your imperfection before me, the harder it is to look away?

She's impatient. She's stubborn. She has child-like impulses you find endearing.

She once walked barefoot from her flat to yours because she wanted to feel the ground beneath her feet.

On a Sunday morning, you had sundae for breakfast because she thought it was a funny pun.

Sheets of rain cascaded down when you were walking at the park on a Wednesday afternoon. You had an umbrella but she let the rain lick her skin. She was shivering in the cold but the sun was in her eyes. Burning. Those little pools of sunshine smiled at you. Gleeful. Challenging. So you stepped out your shade and felt the water drench you in an instant. You're Icarus and she was your sun.

Sometimes you look at me like I am the world to you.

You're scribbling random phrases on a piece of paper. Most times they were gibberish, just so you can shake off the weight of the words once they flow out your pen. But there were rare occasions that a sentence would inspire a paragraph, a chapter, a whole book.

Your hand itched as you stared at a phrase inked on the paper. 'I can only assume…'

You looked up and she was watching at you across the table. She held your gaze, no shyness for being found out.

'Sorry, I don't even know I'm doing it sometimes,' you apologized, pushing the paper aside.

She continued to look and you felt naked under her gaze.

'You have no idea how fucking breath taking you are, aren't you?'

You looked away, the weight of her stare pushing and pulling you in equal forces. 'I'm dreadfully ordinary.'

'Maybe you don't see what I see.'

'Perhaps.'

'Naomi, look at me.' You did. 'You're beautiful. You're the most fucking gorgeous girl I'd ever laid my eyes on.'

'Cheers,' you said, cheeks tinged in pink. 'You know Em, they have a term for your condition.'

'Condition?'

'It's called beer goggles.'

She awarded you with a raspy chuckle and your lungs expand like a balloon. You're afraid it's going to burst from the pressure.

Sometimes, some dark times, you look at me like I wasn't even there.

A bulk of your days you still spend crouched in front of your study piecing together the splintered scenarios, fragmented conversations of your still nameless characters. Hers were spent studying and attending her remaining classes. Despite that, you still meet on the weekends.

But then a full week went by that you don't see her. When she called you to meet, she wasn't herself. A million miles away. Passive. Won't laugh at The Simpsons on your telly. The third time it happened, you saw a sizeable bruise on her forearm. Bile rose to your throat, realizing the reason why she can't meet you during those Sundays.

'I don't want to talk about it,' she said, concealing the purple spot with the sleeve of her jumper.

'But Em… I get worried.'

'Look, I'll be fine alright? I can look after myself.'

Even then, you already felt her pulling away. You can't stand the thought of not seeing her so you stop. It's selfish, you know, but she wasn't giving you a choice.

If I bare my demons to you, will you try to tame them or run away in fear? Or maybe you'd reveal me yours and show me I'm not as broken as I think I am.

'I've read your book.'

'Oh.'

'The first one.'

You feel suddenly exposed but you ask her anyway, 'Your thoughts?'

'Honestly?'

'Yes please.'

'It's a little macabre.'

'Hmm.'

'Not in a bad way, obviously. Lauren's character, she's a lot like you.' You don't comment so she goes ahead, 'She said love is like getting your soul ripped apart and being burned alive. It's a sinister way to look at something that inspires people to do great things.'

'There are always two sides of a coin. I paint a canvass the way I see it in my reality, gives the art authenticity.'

'So Down the River to the Rapids is art depicting life?'

'I'd like to think all my works reflect life, one way or another,' you replied cryptically. 'Lauren's demons are more of a reality than fiction for some readers, you know.'

'That's why it sold 320,000 copies?'

'Yeah, maybe but I'm talking about the letters they write me. A few thousands, in different lengths and languages, telling me how they saw their self in her.'

'So you are Lauren.' You shrugged. 'You know what I think about her philosophy on love?'

'That you have differing opinions on the matter?'

'Yes, only because I think…' she looked deep into your eyes. 'I think she's loving the wrong people.'

These city lights are white-washing the textures. I want to go back to our little town, the silent glows of street lights, quiet stroll by the bridge, with you beside me, everyone else is background noise.

Your third novel got published. Your mum called in crackly reception, telling you how proud she was. Emily came by with a bottle of champagne and made quesadillas in your kitchen all the while wearing a paper moustache. Shortly, you got a call from your publisher; you're leaving for America for three weeks to promote your novel.

You had book signings from New York to Seattle in a span of 19 days. It was always surreal experience to meet your readers in large numbers; all have opinions on your characters and their storylines. It's one of the rare occasions that you don't mind the crowd.

Distance and time difference separated you from her and it made the days excruciatingly long. You talk on the phone but the choppy voices and static sounds would amplify your distance rather than mend it.

By the end of your trip, you couldn't wait for another minute to you get your quiet life back. You're planning some weeks off from writing before you pursue the budding idea for a fourth book. You were asleep the whole time you were in the air back to England. You arrived in Heathrow at midnight. People walking around like ghosts. Their suitcases an extension of themselves.

You still sent Emily a quick text to tell her you're back despite the hour. It was three am when you're hauling your suitcase up the stairs to your flat. You're pleasantly surprised when you saw her sitting by your door, listening to her iPod. The brightest, tired smile illuminated your face.

'Hi.'

'I saw you on the telly,' she said standing up, her face mirroring your expression.

'Yeah?'

'26-year-old YA writer from Bristol publishes third critically-acclaimed novel in five years.'

'They make me sound like a prodigy.' You're standing in front of her now, her halo of sunshine warming you again.

'You are a prodigy. In author years.' She ran her hand on the fabric of your coat. 'How's America?'

'It's a beautiful country,' you said automatically and she laughed at you.

'Honey, you're not in a press tour anymore.'

'Oh, sorry. My hand also still twitches sometimes,' you share, 'signing phantom books.'

She bit her lip and nodded, her cheeky smile in place. Without another word she stood on tiptoes and kissed you firmly. Your eyelids fluttered close, your brain seeking out. But soon you realized not a word had been constructed yet to depict this moment. She pulled back and looked at you with tumultuous eyes.

'Emily.'

'Yeah, Naoms?'

'I always walk around with a hollow emptiness in me. I never fully understood the word 'complete', was never in a state of fullness. That rainy Thursday morning I saw you, I had a fleeting feeling of what it was like. When we met outside the gallery that lonely Saturday night, I thought I'll never ache for someone's pain as much as I did for you at that moment. When you told me your passion for inspiring children, never have I adored another person more.'

With searching eyes and shaky breathe, 'Why are you telling me this?'

'Because it's a sin if I don't let you know how truly beautiful and amazing you are. Sometimes you punish yourself too much for the crimes that other people commit.' You cupped the side of her face and swiped your thumb on her pale cheek. 'I'm going to kiss you now.'

You wait for her nod before connecting your lips.

'Welcome back,' she whispered.

'It's good to be back.'

'I fucking missed you.'

You groan when she playfully bit your lip. 'I missed you too.'

I held you in my hands like a delicate flower. But maybe you weren't the vulnerable one; maybe you didn't care if you died tomorrow. Maybe it was me who will corrode, who'll be worse than dead once you're done with me.

Sorry if they're a little out of character at times, I just had fun with it. I originally planned this to be a one-shot but I might add one or two chapters. I'd love to hear what you think so far though, reviews will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading, cheers loves.