A/N: Media is how I imagine Rosa to look!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Incident was so bad not even the hospital I was sectioned in was able to talk to me about it for a good number of months, until it stopped having the reaction that made me panic. Dre had visited me as often as she could, for my hospital hadn't been close. Mental health funding in the NHS means that if you need care, you're probably going to have to go away to get it.

Mine was a two-hour car journey or a three-hour train.

Dre only told me when I was much better how the Incident went down, and people's reactions to it afterwards. Even then, it was only because I pressed her. And even then, I know she was being kind.

Turns out, doctors and would-be doctors gossip as much as teenagers. For that summer, my incident was all anybody talked about. I had floods of well-intentioned acquaintances on Facebook, when I was allowed back on it. And floods of not-so-well intentioned ones, too. And that was what was publicly posted. I'm sure I coined a few phrases for people at that party.

Luckily, I don't remember much about that party. My psychiatrist told me that we select our memories, unconsciously, as a way of self-preservation. When we're happy, we tend to blot out the times that made us sad or upset, and vice-versa. I think I've just blotted that evening out entirely.

There's only one thing I regret, and that was thanking the person that did, ultimately, save my life. I wouldn't have thanked them for it at the time, and I cursed them for many months after it. I can't remember their face, or even their voice.

I just remember their hand, solid and reassuring, wrapping around mine.

'You're not?' I can hear my mother's suspicious tone, and I know she's sharing a calculating look with Dad. Is this our daughter being truthful, or lying to us again? They're saying it to each other right now, soundlessly.

'I'm anxious,' I admit, 'and many other things. But I'm not embarrassed.'

That seems to settle her. She relaxes and begins to chatter away about what I've missed in the whole day I've been gone. Our neighbour's cat has gone missing, and Carrie was part of the search team last night that went out and found the missing Pebbles. Pebbles, meanwhile, was being fattened up by another neighbour, one that didn't get along with the original neighbour, and the tension is juicy. My father adds in about Carrie's boyfriend turning up on the door with floods of tears to match the roses as he said farewell to "the love of his life".

I snort down the phone. Carrie's boyfriend is going to university in London. They're not even far. My snort dies away when my dad asks about Carter.

I go very still. 'I haven't heard from him,' I reply. I wish I could zone out of the conversation again, but my body has become attuned to the way my parents quieten on the phone. This time, I wish I could see their faces. Maybe I should turn on the video camera, so they can stop communicating without my knowing.

They'd adored Carter. It's hard not to. With a boyish smile, good scores, and the added bonus of becoming a doctor, my parents had welcomed him with open arms. Even Carrie, immune to the charms of "rugby boys"— Carter had never actually played rugby, but all his friends did— had begrudgingly gotten along with him.

And then The Incident took place.

'Well, that doesn't matter...' Mum's voice is falsely happy.

'Isn't he working now anyway?' Dad chips in, clearly on speakerphone. My mood takes a wobble. This isn't how I wanted the conversation to go.

'Yes,' I say, a little miserably, 'He's graduated and is a doctor now. He's too good for a student like me.'

I'm only a tiny, teensy bit bitter.

'What a ba—' my mum starts, but she's distracted at the loud screaming that starts emitting from the house next door. I jump out of my skin, dropping my phone with an oompf onto the bed. Heart hammering, I scramble to pick up my phone whilst orientating what's happening.

It's not human screaming— it's the loud siren of an alarm going off next door. I put a hand to my thudding chest and breathe out.

'It's just next door's alarm going off,' I say, 'My room is on the ground floor, so it sounds extremely loud.'

'My goodness!' even my mother sounds like she's had a fright. 'Is it safe you living on the ground floor, Rosa? I do worry...'

I want to remind her that my biggest threat is probably myself, but that would only make her worry further.

'Someone has to be on the ground floor,' I remind her gently. 'I volunteered.'

'But you're first in, you should just pick the room you want!' my dad insists, and I laugh out loud. Trying to imagine my parents going to university makes me giggle. My dad would definitely be the neighbour that demands everyone quieten down after nine o'clock, leave Post-It notes all over his food, and deal with his housemates as though they were children.

In other words, he'd have no friends. Not that I'm doing much better. And I've been known to use a passive-aggressive Post-It note or two, in my time.

At that moment, a loud knock hammers on the door.

'Who's that?' Mum says immediately.

I shuffle to my feet, the alarm screeching to a halt next door. 'I don't know,' I say, 'But it might be Dre or Daya arriving.'

'Right,' Dad says, and this time I know he's giving my mum a reassuring nod. 'Time we leave you to it, Ros.'

'You don't have to—' I begin, but they both protest, telling me I need to socialise with the house. Within thirty seconds, they've put the phone down, and the knocking comes again.

'I'm coming!' I yell, my voice cracking a little at the raised decibel. I don't exactly shout often.

I barge to the door and yank it open with a silly grin on my face and a stance ready for a bear hug. I haven't seen Dre over summer because she's been away visiting her family in Japan. I'm assuming it's Dre, because I'm sure Daya mentioned a family party this evening, and I'm sure the other girl's flight wasn't until tomorrow morning.

I open the door with the silliest, goofiest smile I can muster, fully ready to throw myself at the person outside.

Instead, he looks at me with alarm as I'm beaming, laughing, my arms open wide. I'm grinning insanely at a beautiful guy with a handsome, Flynn-Rider sort of face, and loose brown hair that falls to just the right amount of untidy. He's taller than me, so even a few steps above him he reaches my eye level, so I meet these refreshing, nature-green-valley irises. But the worst part of all, is that: I know him. Not well, but enough that the sight of him brings up his name along with a few other random factoids that accompany people's names.

Elijah. No, he was now Doctor Elijah.

At the sight of me, in all goofdom, I think I see his lips twitch in amusement. He coughs, clearing the air.

My cheesy smile falls rapidly, and I lower my arms slowly.

'Hi there,' my voice fails me. I choke on my own words. I flush beetroot, and his lips definitely raise into a small smile. 'How can I help you?'