We arrived at the hospital to receive many scrutinizing looks.

She fills in the forms for us as I'm unable to write. She has swirly, loopy handwriting and dots her i's with circles. Her nails are painted a pristine fuschia and she wears two simple, intricate gold rings. She twirls her messy, wavy, strawberry blonde hair around her index finger as she writes our particulars. Even with an injured face I can tell she's stunning. She has wide, sapphire eyes that watch me earnestly when I ask to inspect the damage I inflicted upon her.

''Your eyes are so intense,'' she says softly, as if in awe of my plain, cognac-brown ones.

When we're called to be seen to by a doctor she refuses to leave me to go to her own designated treatment room. She kicks up such a fuss that she's treated in my room, with me, instead. I never thought she could be feisty.

She strokes my bandaged wrist ever-so softly and apologises profusely for hurting me.

I trail my fingertips over her cheek and say the same.

Once we're discharged she takes me home to my apartment on her bike. I offer her tea, since she doesn't look like a coffee kind of girl. Her face noticeably lights up.

''I'd love that. Thank you,'' she says breathily, gaze transfixed on my face.

Upstairs, I brew some Vanilla Chai for the both of us as she reclines on my beige fold-out couch. I can't help but muse that she fits in with my minimalist apartment. She holds no pretentions, is naturally feminine, pretty and delicate.

Her eyes swivel avidly across my cream walls, vintage photo frames, musician posters, cracked glass coffee table and colourful, mismatched chairs. She remarks on my fluffy crimson rug with a grin. She looks so content. She so easily distracts me from my aching wrist with her disarming smile and childlike wonder.

I like her. I really do.