A/N: Hey, everyone! Sorry I missed posting yesterday! I was so tired after work that I basically ate dinner and went straight to bed. So, here's chapter four a bit late!

I can't believe TFMU is in a few days! I still have to clean up my place and pack for the trip! Is anyone reading this going this year? I really hope so! I'd love to see you there!

Thanks. Sally, for editing this chapter! Love you! You're the best!

"I would have to learn to live in a different way, seeing death as an imposing itinerant visitor but knowing that even if I'm dying until I actually die, I'm still living," – Paul Kalanithi

4

A "love quick-fix." That's what the woman called her weekly advice column that resided in the corner of a popular trash tabloid. Next to the celebrity gossip, famous birth charts, and astrology, Jessica Stanley answered a wide range of love-related questions.

Bored at the diner during my dismal lunch shifts, I began reading the column as I munched on leftover French fries dosed in an appropriate amount of ketchup. Never had I been one to thumb through tabloids, but boredom had a way of opening the door to plenty of new things. Between customers, I'd find myself hunched behind the POS system with the tabloid as if I would find answers to the questions that I was too shy and unsure to voice.

Sometimes, I considered writing to her—the illusive Jessica Stanley, who apparently had a fix for everything. Could she fix the mess I was in? Would finding my questions in print make me feel any less alone?

It had been a week and a half since the rooftop debacle that had sent me spiraling into a new phase of grief. I had cried for a man I barely knew as if I were experiencing every ounce of his pain first-hand. Who was Gabriella? The woman he had cried for so harrowingly. What led up to his desire to jump? What led to my own desire to do the same? The lurking dark desire in the corners of my mind, waiting to be addressed.

The diner entrance door swung open with a chime, and I peered away from the tabloid to find an average-sized brunette making her way toward the countertop seating. She looked hungry and determined as she slipped off her messenger bag, placing it on the empty chair to her left, before taking a seat. She sat for only a moment before she started to tap her long, manicured nails against the countertop. Her eyes wavered in the empty space in front of her before her gaze found mine. Then, she gave me an expectant glance before her features morphed into something that looked like she was silently questioning whether or not I knew how to do my job.

Guilt washed over me as I dropped the magazine and picked up my pen and pad of paper. I shuffled toward her, wishing I'd had my morning coffee. It took everything in me to suppress a yawn as I moved to stand before her. I handed her the menu that was resting behind the counter and gave her a chance to look it over.

As she did so, I couldn't help but take in her appearance. While she was nothing extraordinary—not a beauty but not unattractive—she looked oddly familiar. There was something about the cute, crookedness of her nose that stood out. I had seen this face before … but where?

The truth struck me as the woman peered up and asked for a coffee. Next to the "love quick-fix" advice section, there had been a small, black-and-white pictured that accompanied the name Jessica Stanley. That colorless picture had shown a woman with a cat-like smile and a slightly crooked nose that seemed more like an endearing imperfection than something to ever want to fix with surgery. I gaped for a moment, and as she gave me a questioning look, I spoke up, feeling like it would be awkward not to.

"Y—you're Jessica Stanley," I stuttered out in disbelief.

Before I could kick myself for sounding so stupid in front of her, she perked up, seemingly liking being recognized like this in public. It seemed like the sort of thing that had never happened to her before. Instantly, her entire aura changed from an annoyed customer to a quasi-celebrity. No longer was I an incompetent employee in her eyes. I was a fan.

"You read my work?"

She made it sound like she was a prolific writer, churning out one best seller after the next. Not that I was dissing her job in any way—her advice column was a witty read that made all of my shifts feel a bit less dull. Still, her attitude threw me for a loop.

"You definitely have a way with words," I remarked—although, I felt like I didn't entirely know what I was talking about. All I did know was the woman in front of me always shelled out solid advice. Sometimes, there would be reader success stories where they shared bits of their lives after their submissions.

Every one of those "success stories" revealed a man or woman who was completely satisfied with their love life. It almost felt unreal at times—like the result of some sort of spell.

A love spell maybe. If love spells existed outside the fantasy world that resided in many of the books I read.

If I asked her, could this woman be able to help me too?

The question sounded ridiculous in my mind. I was past needing help. I was past needing a love life. I had my fill of love before and saw the destruction it caused. I had run from my past before the waves of my everyday pain drowned me. When I had been "in love," I was merely wading in water. I was gasping above the shoreline, praying not to sink into the dark depths of the salt water.

"You seem sort of lost …" Jessica Stanley peered down at my nametag. "Marie?"

"Bella," I corrected her without thinking. Still running and paranoid because of it, I felt weird displaying my true name for just anyone to see. However, with this stranger whose work I've been reading for the past week, I felt oddly safe.

Jessica spoke in a way that made it seem like we were old friends catching up. As she looked at me, I didn't feel like I was standing behind a counter, waiting to take her food order. I felt like a confidant—someone close that she could share her secrets with.

Maybe my time alone was giving me strange thoughts.

"Bella." She smiled in a way that made my stomach twist. "That's a pretty name."

I blushed. My body found a way of reacting on its own, putting me on edge as I grasped onto the lined pad of paper. As if she planned to put me out of my misery, she peered down at her menu again before quickly ordering. I jotted it all down, although I doubted I could forget scrambled eggs and a side of bacon, before giving her my best attempt at a friendly smile.

"Do you mind if I set up shop here? Write for a while?"

I perked up at this. "Why would I mind? It'll be cool to see you in action."

When had I ever been so talkative and casual with a stranger? What happened to being slow at warming up? For some reason, I looked at her and the words flew out. It was a rarity in this world to find someone you can connect with instantly, falling into a conversation effortlessly like slipping into your comfortable bed after a long day.

"Do you really read my column a lot?"

Another blush came then. "Um … well, I just recently became a fan."

There wasn't much to do around here other than read trash tabloids, after all. Outside of a few shops and such, there was nothing but roads and gas stations with a few motels scattered about. Of course, I wasn't going to be the one to tell her that reading her work blossomed entirely from boredom. There was nothing like astrology and relationship advice to keep my mind occupied from the nasties.

The "nasties" was the nicest way I could sum up the darkness I regularly found my thoughts in. There were times when my moods could be high before my focus casually shifted. Almost like someone slipping on a jacket, expecting it to protect them from a chill. The shift inside of my mind was quick, and within seconds, I could find myself in a completely different place.

My eyes never burned with my consent. Tears never fell after asking me for the okay first. Instead, I'd find myself wading in the waters again, trying to keep my head up while being hit by every passing wave. The past was the past, and I wanted to leave it there, yet it always found a way to creep back in, slipping through the crevasses I hadn't had the strength to seal.

"Are you looking for any advice?" she asked casually as she began to type on her computer.

Her expression was bored, as if she were responding to emails or filtering through spam. I couldn't imagine that this was the face she made while typing up love advice. Despite the trashiness of the tabloid, her features always felt as if they were done with care. They never seemed rushed or inconsiderate; they never seemed like something someone wrote with a jaded, glazed-over expression. There was a richness in her vocabulary that was still artfully simplistic, making her sound very much like a close confidant, sharing secrets of the trade.

When I didn't answer right away, she continued with, "You look like you're looking for advice. I mean, just look at your face. The way you're blushing … There has to be someone you have in mind. Something that you have questions about."

Jessica paused, and then leaned back in her chair, stretching her neck for a moment as if she were carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. After a loud satisfying crack, she straightened her spine and watched me thoughtfully. Was I really so transparent?

Everyone always told me I was easy to read. Even when I focused all of my energy on fixing my face, wanting to appear strong and unafraid, one word could cause me to shatter. A word of comfort; a word of anger; a word of hatred. It didn't matter. Any word was cause enough to let my guard down. In a strange way, Jessica seemed to know that.

Maybe part of what makes a writer good is their ability to read people. She had a clear knack for it as if it were something innate. She could probably sum me up in a sentence. Maybe two.

What would she say? How does one describe a stranger? How would I describe myself?

A twenty-something brunette with dark eyes and skin a shade typically found on the dead. A woman with a flighty gaze and eyes that have seen too much too soon.

Were these things obvious to other people? Would she take one look at me and accurately sum me up?

"There isn't someone …" As I said it, it sounded false.

The truth was, I didn't want there to be someone. Not yet. Not so soon. Yet, at the same time, I wanted to drown again.

Maybe drowning, letting myself fall beneath the surface of water, wouldn't be so bad. Until now, I had fought the current in a last-ditch effort to delay the inevitable. Maybe, just maybe, I was always meant to drown in the end, but my body had just never been quite ready to do it.

As a child, a single solace was drifting in the pool water. Young and still imaginative, I pictured my legs morphing into fins. With my eyes closed, I even imagined scales protruding from my sunburnt flesh. The scales would start near my toes, popping up first from the toenails before traveling up to my ankles, and then to my calves. Then, once the scales would reach my knees, fins would appear where my feet had been. Almost like a fish was sucking me up, inviting me to join it in the sea water.

I would always imagine moving through the water like a fish, forcing my knees to move together as one as I paddled forward in a way that resembled playacting. Then, when I would grow bored and the sun became too much, causing my skin to smell like sweat and chlorine, I would give up swimming for a while and lay on my back, letting the same sun that plagued me moments before kiss my face.

It felt nice, holding my breath as I controlled the way my young frame lay on top of the water. Nothing was better than knowing, at any moment, you could choose to sink. Beneath the water; toward the bottom of the pool; to live with the lingering germs and piss. I could linger there too if I chose to until my limbs itched to move again, and I'd carry myself back up to the surface.

When I let go of my breath and sank, I would always smile at the way my eyes burned. Every day was so dull that any amount of feeling, even a painful one, was more than welcomed. I'd leave my eyes opened for a few moments, and only when they really burned, did I close them.

Why did I always welcome the pain like an old friend? Why was I welcoming it now, inviting more hurt into my already shattered life?

"It doesn't seem like there isn't someone …" Jessica teased before trailing off to take a sip of her coffee. "Are you new here?" she asked, changing the subject. "I haven't seen you around."

"Do you live here?" I asked, surprised that someone like her would live in a place like this.

She laughed at my expression. "I live around here. I come here a lot to write."

"I've never seen you here before."

With a shrug, she said, "I just got back from a trip. Visited a relative in the hospital and vacationed around the area for a while before coming back. It was nice to get away and take a break from everything."

"Do you have a lot of stress here?" I asked, hoping the question wouldn't seem like I was prying.

"There's a lot of stress everywhere, isn't there?" She shrugged, seeming unimpressed by her own situation. "I always hear about everyone else's stress too."

"You mean, all of their questions?"

Our cook chimed the service bell, and I turned to grab her plate from the window. She finished up her coffee as I set the plate in front of her and smiled at me, silently imploring for another cup. I grabbed a fresh pot, and she sighed contentedly, leaning back against her seat as she watched me pour.

"Having everyone come to you about their problems all of the time is tiresome … Like, once people know you write about this sort of stuff, they'll ask you nonstop questions. Everyone comes to me all of the time. It's just … a lot."

"And you want to hear about my problems," I said, unable to suppress a nervous laugh.

Did I want to tell a total stranger with an advice column about my life? What advice could she possibly give me? Turn and swim toward the shore? Get out of these waters before the waves become more tumultuous? Would she tell me to pursue a relationship I shouldn't want?

Was a relationship what I wanted? How does anyone really know what they want?

"Well, I've never heard about your problems before," she said with a mischievous sort of smile. "You look like you have something interesting to say."

An interesting story—I had never thought of my life like an "interesting story." There had never been enough distance from my past to look at my timeline objectively. Everything was a blur. One long, endless blur that feels like driving through heavy fog.

"There's really nothing," I said before dropping my gaze. "I mean, there's a lot, I guess, but I wouldn't even know where to begin."

A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips, causing dimples to form near her faint laugh lines. "Well, I have time. Plenty of time."