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❝Angels don't lie, but you do. If I'm a devil, what are you?❞
When Burq loses his memory in an accident and doesn't remember his own wife anymore, Leyla finds it a chance to escape her beastly husband and pretends to be his friend...
Please remember, it takes more than a pulse and a pair of working lungs to call a life living.
— Beau Taplin
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The first time his gaze falls on her, she looks like any other girl to him. The dimming light from the sunset filters into the hospital room through the small window to his right. The pink of the sky gives way to purple as the sun slowly dips down the horizon, its feeble orange rays casting a golden hue against her pale skin. She tilts her head, the black waves of her hair cascading forward to shield her eyes, like a midnight sky on an endless ocean.
For any other man, her obsidian orbs alone could be bewitching enough, speaking daring words that her speechless lips are holding back. But he is not any other man, and thus to him she looks like any other girl.
His thoughts continue to flick between his past and present, like a pendulum in unrest. The accident has left him with amnesia— his recent memories are gone like sand blown away by the wind. His head hurts and his body is numb, but the enormous cast wrapped around his leg is preventing him from moving.
What strange strategies God uses to run this world, he thinks. He's a king, sitting on His throne up in the sky, messing with whoever He wants, like He has just cut his wings and ruined him. His heart wails at the tragedy, but his face remains passive.
She drags a chair, getting back his attention, and sits beside his bed. They stare at each other silently, the air between them still and full of oblivion. He regards her sharply, studying her carefully, and she is not once repelled away by his hawk like eyes. He becomes aware of one thing: she is not a shy girl; she is a quiet girl. And quiet is way more dangerous than shy— it is powerful. This makes him ill at ease.
So he decides to be the first one to slice the tension.
"Who are you?"
His voice comes out hoarse and drained of life. He is sure it doesn't remind her of dark chocolate or smooth velvet.
"I'm your friend."
Her voice is calm and full of life; it reminds him of hope and faith. He cringes mentally.
"I don't remember you," he says, and she smiles fleetingly.
"I know. You've no memory of your last few months, as the doctor has examined you and told you. But he also says it could be temporary since your head injury isn't so severe."
"And my leg? How bad is it?"
He looks down at the cast again; it scares him. She follows his eyes.
"Very bad," she answers honestly. "But you need not to worry. You'll be able to walk again just fine in about two months, with a little rehabilitation."
He chuckles ironically, his pupils dilating at the information, as if two months were equivalent to two days. Unfortunately for him, he's more of a realist than an optimist.
