Note:

Flashbacks and thoughts in italics.

I do not condone or encourage any behaviors in this story. It is simply a fictional story.

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She first saw him through the blue waves, gliding across the sea—tanned, stocky legs balanced on a gaudy red surfboard. His face glimmered like the ocean, happiness like a jellyfish dancing toward the surface. She thought the sunlight hitting her face was annoying, but that was before she loved the sun—not that she had anything against sunscreens. Her chiffon wedding dress was soaked in sand and saltwater. She was turning heads. She felt like a loafer, avoiding the duties of life—getting married or having kids. Otherwise, she wouldn't have run away from this arranged marriage at the worst, last minute. She had embarrassed her family. Now, she was as good as disowned.

She squinted at the people resting peacefully under the shade of beach umbrellas. She had come to the beach to drown herself, and now she felt stupid. She should've come in the afternoon, when the sun was setting. There were too many people here, and there was some strange serenity in the air that tugged her back from the gloom of responsibilities to the joys of life.

Women in jean skirts and bright makeup passed by her. Some gaped at her out-of-place attire; some whistled. Amo knew she looked really pretty in the sparkling dress. Even as rain clouds started swirling in the sky, Amo stayed seated on the shore, dragging her knees up and tucking them under her, drawing circles in the sand with her middle finger. A metaphorical fuck-you to life.

Amo smirked, her petite, folded form looking like it was wrapped in luminous candy wrappers—the vintage kind. A lost girl in a wedding gown on a beach on a fine Sunday. How cinematic! That's a plot for horror.

She saw him again, now clad in an airy blue shirt, surfboard tucked under one arm. He was strolling toward her.

Wait—he's strolling towards her...?

Amo sat up straighter and looked away, not wanting to answer uncomfortable questions from strangers or flirt with perverts.

An arm extended toward her—a large, calloused hand that she inadvertently grabbed because she didn't know what she was thinking. Maybe... she wanted cruel danger.

The hand pulled her up, and as she looked at the guy—a potential criminal who could maim or sell her—oddly, she was unafraid.

Yep. She was really on the path to self-destruction.

"My name's Rudo," he said. He had such a pleasant face, he didn't even have to smile.

"My name's A—" she cut herself off before the sound stuck in her throat puffed out like a ball of cotton candy, "—Aurora."

Sunshine hit them through the clouds, glassy beams reflecting off his visors. It might rain in the daylight.

His face contorted, trying to stifle a snort. "Okay, Aurora, if you're making up names, you could've chosen a less obvious one."

A corner of Amo's mouth perked up, her toes curling and gathering white sand.

"You see that coffeehouse over there?" She looked at one of the bricked buildings in the direction he pointed. "You've been sitting here since morning, but it's really not that safe after sunset. How about we grab some coffee? My treat."

But we don't know each other. Amo should've said.

Then again, she was on a warpath toward herself at the moment.

Unfortunately, she should've known...

That the universe had other plans.

And that a single cup of coffee would make her break down crying, thinking of all the good things in life she almost threw away just to teach her selfish parents a lesson.

"I'm selfish too," she sniffled, her face a mess after the mascara smudged her cheeks.

Hot, fat tears bloomed from her eyelids and overflowed.

"You want me to call your parents?"

Amo grimaced at herself and shook her head. "I don't wanna see them. Not right now." She felt like a little girl.

But she was not a little girl, and she had made a ginormous mistake.

"But I really didn't want to marry that guy. When I told them that he..." Amo hesitated, "he slapped me in front of his friends... my parents didn't listen."

Rudo stopped chewing his donut, mouth open mid-bite, sugar powder dusting his cheeks. "Why'd you choose him? Handsome? Rich?"

"I didn't. My father did."

Amo pasted her gaze on her coffee.

For the last few months, she had been on a sugar diet, wanting to look too perfect for her marriage.

However, right now, she could really use some sugar.

"Shit, I feel so stupid."

She looked at Rudo until he said, "Geez, why'd you say you didn't want donuts?"

Soon, she was biting into a donut larger than her hand, gobbling down more coffee while Rudo watched her eat, a hand propping his chin, an exhausted yet tender look on his face.

"What are you gonna do today?" he asked.

She seemed to contemplate for a second, then almost immediately yawned. "I don't know."

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It was an old-fashioned building, just like he said. People of all ages milled around, but mostly neighborhood kids.

Rudo's lips set in a firm line. "I'm going to call your parents."

"You don't have their number," she said matter-of-factly.

He blinked and blew out a whoosh of breath. "What do you do for a job?"

But he was an ebullient man. He didn't get tired easily—

Not when he could entertain an excessively pretty young woman.

"I do motorsports."

Amo nodded appreciatively. "I'm a writer."

"Cool." He nodded back.

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She closed her eyes and imagined herself underwater.

Minutes passed fast, like soap bubbles popping on the surface.

If a few months ago, Amo had told herself she'd be risking it all and staying the night in a stranger's house on the day of her wedding, she wouldn't have believed it.

Rudo's house wasn't surrounded by big trees, nor did it have slanted roofs like Amo's, but it was a fairly big house.

His mother and grandmother stayed with him, and he was an only child.

She got to know that from their long hours of conversation that happened by chance.

She had to admit—it did sound like she had spent the afternoon dating him.

The whole day felt like a weirdly good fever dream.

Even though he said it was okay and didn't need her money, she had apologized for the inconvenience she caused him, and had promised to pay him for the help—wincing at the bewildered expression on his mother's face.

Even so, his family was warm and welcoming after the initial shock.

They quickly reverted back to pleasantries, as if they were used to the unpredictabilities of their son.

His mother was a people-pleaser—Amo quickly cottoned on, having been one herself for most of her life.

And his grandmother was justifiably nosy toward their uninvited guest. Amo could understand.

Rudo had interrupted her questions by saying,

"Gramps, stop interrogating her. She's not a terrorist. She's a famous writer. You used to read her work in The Week."

That's when it clicked for her.

Yeah. She used to write in The Week.

How could she forget?

Aah, she was a bit famous, wasn't she?

Of course you are... Dumbass. her brain bit back.

Like a hometown singer.

Who knows—he might've even read some of her work. He recognized her. That's why he approached her.

The typical Asian vibe of the household pacified her, yet simultaneously reminded her of the failings and humdrum of her past lives.

Sometimes playing it cool wasn't enough.

She wiped her tears.

Enough crying.

Why cry when she could trod up the short slope of wet pavement toward the door of her dreamland—its handle, flecked with rhinestones, turning easily, non-judgmental of her knocks?

The imaginary friends in her made-up world were waiting for her—to talk to them, to pour her heart out—because it was safe.

A place where she didn't have to look at everyone with mistrust.

That wouldn't hurt or suffocate her with their inquisitive eyes.

The bells on her dress jingled.

In her dream, she was loud and free.

She looked every inch the colorful gypsy—her alter ego—bereft of all her cautions and separation-anxieties, someone who didn't feel sorry for her life decisions.

Here, she was safe.

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