I stretched and yawned. The morning sun streamed into my bedroom between two huge rain clouds, the autumn rain rustled in the background. I blinked. My God, what a freaky dream I had had last night. Lately, I was really dreaming true to life. Julia and I hadn't been drinking that much after all, and I didn't have a hangover either. Strange. How did I come up with stuff like that?
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, threw on my bathrobe and stepped out of the room. In the kitchen, I made myself a cup of coffee and plodded over to the living room with tousled hair to take a peek at the university network - maybe they had already assigned the classes?
Something knocked on my balcony door.
It knocked?
I spun around and found myself eye to eye with the stranger.
The only thing I could think at that moment was: it was not a dream. Everything had happened truly and completely as I remembered it. That also meant I was in deep trouble, because he wasn't going to just disappear. I closed my eyes for a moment, and then I realized that I was wearing only a pair of panties and a washed-out T-shirt under my bathrobe.
I frantically tried to cover my nakedness and felt the blood rush to my head. He had the decency to lower his gaze, yet I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. I turned on my heel and stormed into the bathroom. Now that was something else! Where did he get the nerve to laugh at me? If I had just shown up in his world like that, then... then... I tried to calm myself down by scrubbing my teeth, even after no bacteria had been able to live for a long time. I showered, dressed, and returned to the living room. As gracefully as I could, I opened the door and stepped up to the railing beside the stranger. He said nothing. Neither did I.
Finally, I pulled out my cell phone and made it clear to him that if he wanted my help, he would have to learn my language. Things couldn't go on as they were. In the bathroom, I had had plenty of time to think. I had accepted that he was probably not from here - here being a very broad term. And I had come to the conclusion that I needed to at least know why he refused to get off my balcony, and this not just by asking questions on the off chance. Only then could I decide whether to actually take his side or, much more likely, call the police. The fact that I hadn't done that yet was... well, probably the biggest mistake of my life and connected with my curiosity for new things.
Besides, I had done some research after brushing my teeth. The way I saw it, my visitor was an Elf and if I had understood the Wikipedia article correctly, Elves were by far the most intellectual folk of Middle-earth. I had already had that impression when I had read the Lord of the Rings myself. Surely English would not be a problem for him? I frowned and realized once again how unbelievably absurd this situation was.
He had been standing silently next to me the whole time, thinking about my offer. Now he nodded and looked at me attentively. Let the games begin.
I first walked through the apartment and taught him some of the essential terms of everyday use. Then I began to form sentences. Again and again I went back to the translator and he diligently wrote along. As expected, he did well and was able to form simple sentences after the first few days. I eventually brought him a grammar that was relatively easy to understand and appropriate for his vocabulary. Nevertheless, I did not let him into my apartment at night. Where he slept, I did not know, and if he had not appeared on my balcony again, I would not have looked for him.

Two weeks passed, during which he made steady progress. Meanwhile, I was plagued by doubts. Was I doing the right thing? Why was I doing this at all? Again and again I questioned his motives and mine, and that could not remain hidden from him.
It was Sunday evening, I stood in the kitchen and cooked. That was another thing. I was a student and certainly not rich. Feeding him was getting to my money reserves and I was worried that it wouldn't last until the end of the month. Apart from that, I had failed an exam and was supposed to study day and night - instead I wasted my time with grammar lessons that were of no use to me.
I had to admit that it was getting to be too much for me, and even though I felt bad about it: I had thought about asking him to leave.
I stirred the potato soup and fought the sinking feeling in my stomach. Suddenly, I felt a stabbing headache in my temple, dropped the spoon, and groaned. The light stung my eyes and the discomfort intensified even more. My migraine hadn't made an appearance in a while, but all of this was stressing me out way too much - an ideal breeding ground for a killer headache.
I propped myself up on the counter as hands settled on my shoulders. I couldn't stop myself from wincing, but he didn't pull away.
"I feel your pain."
For a moment, I forgot about the pounding in my head and turned to face him, eyes wide. That was the first thing he had said properly and of his own accord, without me pushing him.
I couldn't stop a hysterical giggle from bursting out of me. He returned it hesitantly and with an irritated look in his eyes, but I couldn't hold on any longer. I laughed until tears came and I had to sit down on one of my kitchen chairs. And then I cried.
I knew it was the pressure, I knew I must seem completely out of it, and I was beyond embarrassed, but I just couldn't stop. Over and over I shakily wiped the tears from my cheeks and stared at the kitchen cabinet in front of me. Get over it, I thought angrily, biting into the soft flesh of my cheek. Not a chance. I wasn't usually this whiny.
He pushed his way into my field of vision, took my right hand in his and forced me to drink a glass of water in small gulps. After that he left the kitchen and I had the time I needed to find my way back to the here and now. When I felt strong enough, I got up and walked over to the living room. He was sitting in front of my bookshelf, flipping through The Chemistry of Death by Simon Beckett.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't respond.
"This is all just so far-fetched," I made a sweeping motion with my arms. "I can't even imagine how you feel about it."
"You don't have to be sorry. It's me who's overstaying your hospitality."
Where had he learned all that vocabulary so quickly? I was flabbergasted.
He stood up and put the book aside. "What is your name?"
Oh man, I had taught him a language, but I had forgotten the most basic one. "Ina," I muttered, and again the blood rushed to my cheeks.
"Legolas."
My head jerked up.
Oh no. Out of all people.
I felt the hysterical laughter come up again. The cliché elf. I had landed myself the cliché elf. Even if he looked very different from what I would have imagined him to look like after reading The Lord of the Rings. Or after the movies. At least Hollywood had hit the mark with hair and eye color.
He raised an eyebrow. The question was clear.
"I... it's just... I thought you looked different."
I felt the mood change and when he answered, his voice was sharp as a knife, "You know me?"