That Girl
by Hidden Tala

Author's Notes: Before I confuse the bejesus out of you, I would like to warn you that in this fanfiction, Eriol doesn't know Tomoyo and she doesn't know him. This is an alternate universe of sorts. And for the nth time, this is an ExT fanfiction, screw canon. Enjoy reading.
Chapter 1: Drug

He knew it would rain the moment he stepped outside. But his stubborn self didn't heed the warnings of the darkening sky and the hint of lightning and continued to walk on foot. He needed to get out. The restlessness was beginning to drive him mad.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets of Tomoeda, searching for that something that was still a blur to him. But he knew, whatever it was, it would silence the nagging feeling in his gut. He walked in a bookstore, a place he usually tried to get away from when he was still in London, and found himself greeted by a very friendly old lady whom he learned later on as the owner of the place. She recognized him, not by his looks but by the way he conversed, as "that big shot Japanese writer in Europe who can't find his way home". He laughed at her clear-cut description of him and was only too happy to oblige when she asked him to sign her copy of his book.

"Your books are not so sensationalized here as they were in Europe," she said when he handed her back the book. "How do you feel about that?"

He shrugged offhandedly. "I'm actually relieved that the people here don't give a lot of fuss about me or my books. God knows I've had too much of the media back in London. And the sense of anonymity here is just a breath of fresh air for me. I'm glad, honestly."

The old lady looked thoughtful. "But aren't you disappointed that your countrymen seem to be indifferent with your works? I thought celebrities are crazy for the limelight."

"Well, for one, I'm not some bratty superstar." He grinned. "I'm just a writer who wants to," he continued, making a close and open quotation with his fingers, "find his way home. And it's not true that my people don't read or are indifferent with my work. You proved me that."

For a moment he thought that the old lady looked flushed. Then the sound of wind chimes broke out, signaling a new set of customers. The kind old lady asked him to stay for a cup of tea but he politely declined, saying that he was still searching for that something he had no clue about. She merely raised a delicate brow and shook her head in good humor. He thought she heard her mutter, "What a bizarre young man," which made him laugh. He bade her farewell and made a promise to come by soon.

He continued to walk, ignoring the deep rumble in the heavens. He watched, with profound curiosity, the people walking in the busy sidewalk. There was a pack of high school students discussing the release of a new shoujo manga, some busy-looking people with a mug of Starbucks in their hands, that smiling guy in the newsstand, and a lot of lone individuals like himself. He wondered if they were just as restless as him.

There was that deep rumble again but now it was accompanied with drops of water. He wanted to curse himself for his stubbornness and his idiocy for forgetting to bring an umbrella. He ran until he reached the crosswalk. He waited for the traffic light to turn green. He ran with his jacket above his head. The rain made him think about London. He inwardly sighed, suddenly weary. He didn't want to think about London, not yet. He shook his head as if to clear his head. And suddenly he was on the ground toppled over with black and books. It was pure instinct that his eyes immediately darted to the books. Before he became a writer, he was, first of all, an avid reader, and it was that avid reader in him that made him look at the books rather than the weight above him. He was clearly surprised when he found his name in one of them.

"I'm so sorry," a soft feminine voice mumbled above him.

"Ugh," he grunted unintelligently.

The woman turned, releasing him in the process, and started to pick up her scattered belongings. He reached for the umbrella near his leg, which was hers, and covered them from the rain. He had no choice so he helped her carry the books and they hurriedly ran when the cars began honking at them.

"I'm so, so sorry," she said in between pants when they stopped in a shed, her upper body was bent that made it impossible to see her face. "I didn't mean to run over you. I was in a hurry and I-"

"No, don't," he cut her off suddenly that it made her stiffen. "I mean, I'm not angry. I'm just saying that I was at fault too. I was lost in my thoughts that I didn't see you coming. I'm sorry."

She straightened up and he finally saw her face. His breath caught. It wasn't because she was blindingly beautiful or anything cheesy like that. But it was her face – those eyes, that nose and that mouth. He thought of a word. Drug.

She's the drug.

She gasped. "I got you wet! God, I'm so sorry! Take my umbrella. You can have it. I'm sorry but I'm really in a hurry, I have to go now."

She swiped the books out of his hands and before he could open his mouth, she became a blur of black.