Her Name Is Havoc

Four months ago

  I woke up to a ceiling I didn't recognize. That's not like me. I don't sleep outside. Then I realized that the unfamiliar ceiling isn't as weird as the fact that I was sleeping on the floor. The whole room is unfamiliar. Then memories hit me slowly. Hazel. I slept by her bed yesterday. I love this ceiling.
     Slowly, I ascended to my feet, trying to spot Hazel. She's not there, though. I open the room's door and step outside.
"Hazel," I called out.
      No reply.
"Hazel," I try louder.
      Dead silence. She must be gone.
      I approached the door to leave when she came in, holding two cups of coffee and a paper bag that smells of freshly baked pastry. My stomach dances. So does my heart.
"Were you going to leave without breakfast?" she said, handing me the coffee.
      I stared. Reluctant to say anything. I didn't want this moment to end. I wanted to freeze right there, forever. The sunlight swaying along the edges of her face. Rosy cheeks and glowing eyes. Lips are a full moon, too full for the sky to bear. Her smile. Oh my god. Her smile. Could anyone be that perfect? I doubt. It seems like the energy is buzzing off her body. Or maybe it's my energy. My body. My enthusiasm.
"What are you staring at? Are still asleep?! Take the coffee and let's go take a walk. I don't like having people in my flat."
      I nodded. Anything she says.

      She chose the Central Park. She said she has been fond of the place since she was a little kid. She told me stories about her first bike ride. Her dad and his jogging routine. She told me stories that made me miss a life I didn't even have. Or maybe I did but I didn't appreciate them so much that I remember none.
      We took a seat on a bench and started eating. Muffins were in the bag. Deliciously baked muffins. I loved every bite.
"Did you ever have a pet?"
"Yeah. A cat."
"Still with you?"
"No. Ran away a couple of years ago."
"I see," she looked like she wanted to sympathize but couldn't, "sorry about that."
"It's okay."
"I've had one myself."
"And?"
"She ran away too, I guess."
      Sometimes I fear the flare that's in her eyes. Like she can scald me with these piercing looks and feverish stares. But the intensity only elicit me more.
"Did you ever kill?" she asked nonchalantly.
"What?"
"Chill. I am talking about nonhuman kills. Like hunting. Animals I meant."
"No. I don't recall doing so."
"Okay."
      She seemed to lose interest. I wish I had a more exciting life to narrate.
"Can I ask you a question?" I said.
"You are free to ask, but I am not obligated to answer. I only reply to what I want to."
"Fair enough. Do I disinterest you? I mean, am I lame?"
"Why do you care? Everyone's free to hold an opinion. Why do you mind mine?"
"It's just a question. I am just curious. Everyone wants to know how he/she is viewed."
"I don't. It doesn't matter to me."
"I thought so one month ago. I didn't really care about anything as long as I am pleased. But then you meet someone who you find worthy. Worthy of change and everything you're capable of. So you start caring about that person too. And these opinions, which would've never mattered, are now important. They mean a lot to you when that person does too."
"Have you ever thought about writing? You've got the words, dude. You're good. Your words usually sound all poetic and nice. Cheesy as hell, though. But trust me a lot of girls dig that."
     After all she has said, I was supposed to feel insulted. But I am not. I admit I said too much. But I swear to god, not a single word was fake or overrated. I meant every letter. And I wasn't going to drop the flattery because I've got nothing else.
"I only care about one girl."
       She looked at me like she was deciding whether to walk away or to hug me.
"And I only care about muffins. Are you going to finish yours?"