Don't mind me, just quickly putting out a chapter instead of going to work, no big deal. Quick reply to reviewer sasusaku: I have every intention of writing SasuSaku again. They are my OTP. But I'm very unhappy with how a lot of my previous SasuSaku stories have turned out, and I want to go back and edit them before going into the SasuSaku fandom again. I like the smallness of the GaarHina fandom. Thank you so much to everyone for your reviews, they're incredibly appreciated! Also, if there's a typo here, it's because I had to go to work instead of edit. Ooops.

Chapter Four: little rooms

The room is white. Small. White walls, white floor, white roof, white bed, white sheets. I am naked as a new born babe, curled up in a ball, eyes closed against the white that bleaches my vision. Breathing irregular, heartbeat falters. My fingers flex. I am nothing. I am no one. A smudge of colour in a small, empty white room.

There is a voice in the room. A faceless, bodiless voice, drifting in the white void.

"We will call you Gaara," it says, and I whimper.

"Why am I Gaara?" I ask it, voice cracks, dry.

"You are not Gaara yet," it replies, a synthesized monotone. "You will learn to be Gaara."

"How?"

A pause. "They will teach you."

The dreams make little sense to me. They are fragments, they might even be memories, but they make little sense. Vivid, cracked, splinters of my imagination. But I recall them clearly when I look at this stupid girl, heart still palpitating in my ribcage after dragging her away from a truck.

I let go of her quickly, like her skin burns my hand. "Watch where you're going next time," I say to her, then turn to leave. I need to find another way to kill myself. And quick. A way that won't fail. Maybe I'll use a gun. It's hard to survive a bullet to the brain.

"Wait!" she calls out, but I'm disappearing into the thicket of people. Don't turn around. Don't make eye contact. She'll lose me in the undulating crowd soon enough.

Except she doesn't. A hand catches mine and forces me to stop with surprising strength. And I turn around, reflex, unconscious movement, and snarl "Leave me alone." Still don't look at her, eyes glued to the pavement.

She doesn't back down. How annoying. "No," she says. "You just saved me, can I at least get a chance to thank you? Please?"

"You're welcome," I say, then turn away again.

She's persistent, I'll give her that. She doesn't let go of my hand. Fine. I'll drag her until she's forced to let go.

"At least let me buy you a coffee or something," she says, running along beside me. "Come on, I don't even know your name, let me thank you properly!"

We're causing a scene. People are looking, and I don't like that. I don't want people to notice me.

"Let go of me," I growl and try to shake her off. She doesn't let go.

"No, come on, please?" she asks, trailing along like a stray puppy.

It's then that I look at her, agitated, leave me alone you stupid girl, when I see the numbers floating above her head, new ones, a new countdown.

It tells me that she has a week left to live.

Death seems to be trailing her like she's trailing me. Surely there must be a reason, death doesn't just become addicted to someone without one.

My curiosity gets the better of me, even though her dying is none of my business, and I agree to coffee.

Her eyes light up like fireworks on New Year's. "I know a really nice place, you'll like it, everyone does," she says with certainty, and, taking my hand again, drags me against the crowd. I'm getting buffeted in every direction, restless waves in a storm, and I'm sure that half the people in the city just unknowingly felt me up. I feel violated, and it makes me even more angry at this girl. I should've just left her to her fate, considering I only bought her another week of life. She'd make a lovely addition to the asphalt.

I wonder how she'll die next week. Irony would probably insist that she gets crushed by something while checking the road for traffic. Maybe a falling grand piano, or a skydiver whose parachute will fail to open. Something funny and impossible.

She finally pulls me into an overcrowded, stuffy café. There are cushions on the mismatched chairs, and incense burns my throat. An odd wail pierces the atmosphere and it takes me a moment to realise that it's meant to be music.

"What do you think?" she asks, a smile on her lips and lights in those strange eyes of hers. "I love the atmosphere here. It's so different. The staff are great too, and they make amazing coffees. If my dad ever found me in a place like this he'd probably skin me. Oh, I'm Hinata, by the way. Hinata Hyuuga. And before you ask, yes, I'm related to Hiashi Hyuuga. He's my dad. What's your name?"

She's speaking so fast I feel dizzy. And the atmosphere she seems to love so much isn't helping. I think I'm choking on incense. My eyes are definitely burning, and the strange wailing sounds more and more like a dying cat with every passing beat.

Before I get a chance to gather my thoughts, a frazzled waitress appears at our table, sweat sticking her bangs to her forehead and cheeks flushed. "Hey Hinata," she says, whipping out a notepad and pen. "Just the usual today?"

"Yes please Ayame," Hinata replies.

"And who's this handsome fellow?" the waitress called Ayame asks, turning to me. I glare at her. "Hinata, you have a date and you didn't tell me?"

Hinata flushes beet red. "No no no, it's not like that," she defends, hands up and everything. "I was nearly hit by a truck and he pulled me out of the way so I'm shouting him coffee."

"Hit by a truck!" Ayame exclaims, turning back to Hinata. "Are you okay? How the hell did that happen?"

Hinata has the grace to look embarrassed. "It was stupid. I crossed the road and didn't look where I was going. I'm fine, he pulled me out of the way."

Ayame looks relieved. "Okay, well, coffee's on me then," she insists, then turns back to me. "Thanks for saving her, we'd lose half our business if we lost Hinata. What would you like?"

I find myself longing for a bullet to the brain, but choose the strongest coffee I can think of instead. "A large long black," I say.

Ayame nods and finally leaves, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"So what is your name?" Hinata asks me again, and I feel just about ready to kill her.

"Gaara," I reply, my answer short, and hopefully she doesn't continue attempting conversation.

"No last name?" she asks, going against my silent wishes.

"No." Please shut up, please shut up, please shut up. I should've ordered the long black in a take away cup.

"Okay, that's alright," she says, and I'm perplexed by how odd she is. Shouldn't she be in shock or something? She nearly died not half an hour ago, and here she is, nearly bouncing out of her seat, pearl eyes drinking in our surroundings like a blind man seeing light for the first time. I'm exhausted just looking at her. "What do you do? Do you work or study or anything?"

"No," I lie, then, figuring that being slightly polite while waiting for our drinks won't kill me, I continue with "You?"

"Well," she says, and I immediately regret the decision. "Dad's training me up to take over the family business when I'm older, but I'm studying music at uni at the moment. I play flute. Dad wanted me to study business or law or both, but who cares, right? I've got years until I need to take over the business. I can study all that later. Do you play any instruments?"

"No," I reply, praying that the coffee hurries up. How does one person manage to speak so much? Surely there must be a limit on how much any given person can say. I wonder if it's possible for a person's tongue to fall out from over-talking. If it is, she's definitely a contender.

"Oh," she says. "Do you have any hobbies or anything? What do you like?"

"Silence," I say, looking pointedly at her. She doesn't pick up on my hint.

"I like silence too," she agrees, and I'm incredulous. Is it even possible for her to be quiet for more than two seconds to achieve silence? "It's peaceful, isn't it? Like, lets you think properly and gather your thoughts. Sorry, you probably don't believe me. I always talk a lot when I'm nervous. I have a bit of social anxiety. I don't know why I just told you that. Sorry. I need to learn to stop apologising, father always berates me for it."

Thankfully our coffees arrive, and she starts sipping hers quietly, a blush adorning her cheeks which is, admittedly, not unpleasant to look at. She would be considered above average beauty, certainly. Her odd colourings make her look mysterious, sort of unknowable in a way that a mythical nymph or sprite would. If only she wouldn't talk so much.

I down my coffee quickly, scalding my throat, but I force tears out of my eyes and don't take my gaze off her the whole while. She looks at me wide eyed, incredulous, why on earth am I doing this, I'm going to burn myself, stupid. Though it hardly matters. Hopefully I'll be dead soon. Dead men can't feel burnt throats.

The coffee finished, I put the cup back down on the table and rise to leave.

"Thanks for the coffee, watch where you're going next time," I say, ignoring the pain in my throat, and leave. She watches me go, at last, finally, silent.

Gotta go to work now. Leave me reviews? I'll love you forever!

Much love, Alia xoxo