Sunny Side Up is in a kind of sketchy part of town, where I never would have ventured otherwise, and its glowing neon sign is the only spot of brightness on a street that's almost entirely dark. Coming here alone would creep me out, but thankfully I don't have to.

Although Fazia parks as close to the entrance as possible, the rain still thunders on the roof of the beat-up Nissan, with no sign of letting up soon. It's inevitable we're going to get drenched no matter how hasty our exit. After a second to brace ourselves, we throw open the car door and head into the onslaught. Fazia retrieves the wheelchair from the trunk, while Elliot and I move to help Adam out of the backseat in record timing. Then, together, we tear across what's left of the parking lot, barreling toward the shelter of the entrance canopy.

Inside, the place is almost deserted, apart from one heavily bearded guy at the bar who has his head buried in a newspaper and one hand curled around a mug of bottomless coffee. The décor is whacky and mismatched—an abundance of red leather and framed vinyl—and the tables are packed too closely together, but it's warm and dry and smells like syrup. In my eyes, that's three big ticks.

We take a table at the back instead of a booth because it's easier for Adam to maneuver. The menus are in a holder on the table; Elliot passes them out, and with one glance, I'm faced with the biggest choice of pancake toppings I've ever seen.

"This has to be a joke."

Elliot looks at me quizzically. "What?"

"There has to be a hundred different toppings on here," I point out. "What person could need this many options for pancakes? I mean, they're pancakes. They're inherently good, whatever you put on them."

"You're the first person I've ever heard complain about having too much choice," Fazia says amusedly.

"I'm not complaining," I say. "I'm just... overwhelmed."

Adam peers over his menu at me. "I try something different every time we're here, so I like to think I'm pretty well versed. You want a recommendation, I'm the right person to ask. What are you thinking? Sweet? Savory? Crispy bacon? As much chocolate as possible? Or maybe all of the above..."

"Uh..." I let my eyes skim over the options, hoping something will jump out at me. But it's not easy when pretty much everything does. "Maybe something with Nutella?"

He nods wisely. "Then you want the Triple Hazelnut Stack."

"Where's that?"

He reaches over to stab a finger at my menu. Underneath is what I'm looking for: the item of that name, complete with a full three-line description of the chocolate, hazelnut and Nutella concoction that has my mouth watering just reading it, plus a photo that seals the deal. At this time of night, it'll be one insane sugar rush—but it looks and sounds so delicious I'd happily trade in the rest of tonight's sleep for a well-stacked plate.

I slap the menu down on the table. "Okay, I'm sold."

"Thought so," Adam says. "And they'll taste even better since I'm paying."

Until now, I'd forgotten about that—and a fresh wave of guilt hits me. "You don't have to, really. I can get my own."

But Adam's already shaking his head. "We already settled it, didn't we? You got me the awesome photo, so I've got the pancakes. It's no big deal."

"Isn't it pretty much rule number one of college?" Fazia chips in. "If someone offers you free food, never turn it down."

"Exactly." Elliot is nodding in agreement. "It's like the mozzarella sticks in the cafeteria. Take advantage."

"Okay," I say, and as a grateful smile spreads across my face, I give Adam a brief nod. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I glance over my shoulder, taking another look around the diner. It's strange how someplace so empty can still feel so full of life. The bearded guy hasn't moved from his spot at the bar; he appears to sense me looking, because he lifts his head from the newspaper and gives me a small smile. A jukebox in the corner offers a soft, upbeat backing track, and I can hear the voices of staff and the sizzle of a grill somewhere out in the kitchen. Even if I wasn't with three others, I think it'd be impossible to feel lonely here.

I'm curious. "How did you guys find this place?"

"It was an accidental discovery," Elliot replies. "But also the tastiest accident ever."

"We may have only been here a few weeks, but the quest for the perfect photo has already led us to some strange places," Fazia says. "Like this kinda sketchy part of town. I can't even remember what theme we were trying to fit—"

"Shadows, I think," says Elliot. "Remember that alley that smelled like a dumpster?"

"Oh, you're right. That was my photo." Fazia nods, then screws up her nose at the memory. "God, that really did smell. And it really wasn't worth it—I didn't even rank top ten."

Adam laughs. "You're sounding as bitter as Elliot."

"I'm not bitter!"

"Whatever you say..." Adam says, giving me a side-eye that pulls another smile onto my face.

"Hi, guys, sorry for the wait. What can I get for you tonight?"

The voice comes from behind me. We all look up at the same time, and glancing over my shoulder again reveals the waitress who's appeared by our table, notepad in hand. The first thing I notice is her head of curls: tight blonde ringlets, so much more defined than my frizzy waves, a few of which have escaped from her low bun and hang against the side of her face. Though the cheery voice she puts on can't disguise the dark circles beneath her eyes, giving away the fact that it's been a long shift, it doesn't take away from her naturally pretty face.

A face that looks familiar.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, and straight away my brain goes into overdrive trying to place her. I know I've seen her before; the reason is buried somewhere in the back of my mind, if only I could organize my thoughts and bring this girl to the top of the pile.

The cliff-edge feeling—of knowing it's right there in front of me, but not wanting to risk the drop over the edge to find out—affects my whole body.

There's a layer of sweat on my forehead, but I'm cold all over.

The others begin ordering, reeling off requests and switching out toppings while Adam flirts like his life depends on it. But the exchange blurs into one continuous noise around me. I can't make out single words, let alone string whole sentences together. Then, suddenly, the attention swivels toward me and I have no choice but to snap out of it quickly.

"I'll have the, uh..." My order has completely slipped my mind. I look back down at the menu, racing through the options, but there are so many I can't find it. "The, uh..."

"Triple Hazelnut Stack?" Adam offers helpfully.

"That's the one," I say, wishing my voice didn't sound so shaky. I snap the menu closed and hand it back to the waitress. "And, uh... a glass of water, please. Thank you."

"Coming right up."

She doesn't pick up that anything's wrong; once finished scribbling on her notepad, she gives us all a beaming smile and heads back toward the bar. But the other three are more observant. I should've known that my clammy skin and sudden change in demeanor wouldn't go unnoticed.

I forgot that's what happens when you stop shutting yourself away.

"Are you okay?" Elliot asks.

I nod with unnatural purpose, like if I do it hard enough it might snap me out of... whatever this is. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Do you know her?" he presses. "You look like you recognized her or something."

I grip my hands together under the table, willing myself to keep it together. It's easier with her out of sight; I feel more in control, more in touch with this window of reality and less like I'm being pulled back to somewhere else. I know what it is now. It took me a few seconds, caught me off guard, but now it's picture perfect in my mind where I saw that girl last.

"I think she lived downstairs in my dorm last year," I lie. "But I can't remember her name. I was trying to think of it."

Three sets of concerned eyes burn into me from across the table. I know I haven't convinced them, though it's hardly surprising. I can hear the uncertainty in my own voice, so God knows what it sounds like from their perspective.

But the memory is fading now. I have it under control, and I've started kicking my feet hard enough to stay afloat. With enough distraction, I might be able to push it away entirely—to regain my grip on reality and act like my hand never slipped.

"You sure you're okay?" Fazia asks.

"Yeah," I tell her, nodding again. "Positive."

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

And we're back to AFTER chapters! Except there's something not quite right... what are your first instincts about the waitress Morgan recognises?

As always, keep the comments coming! I mean it when I say they're the main thing that keeps me motivated.

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Until next time!

- Leigh