I don't know how long it will be before the system or police find me. My search is moving at the speed of a sleep-deprived turtle. My parents are out there. They're here.

My only available option for finding them is the Town Hall. I don't care how much Mayor Mills hates me. Those town records will tell me everything there is to know. And if she isn't there again, I'll have to get them myself.

I make haste, and as I approach Granny's, Delilah emerges from under the arch, wearing a uniform similar to Henry's. I spin and speed back down the sidewalk. There's no way I'm talking about fairytales again. No, no, no—

"Bella!"

I stop and shut my eyes. Damn it. I twist around and drag out, "Hey."

She hurries over and says, "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. Just... strolling."

"Sounds fun," she teases, smiling.

"It is."

"It's not safe, though. With flying monkeys and all."

"Really?"

She crinkles her button nose. "What? You saw it."

"I know, but... it's so surreal. Are you sure it wasn't like a hologram?"

"Now I get to say, 'Really.'"

"Fine," I say, folding my arms. "I still can't believe it."

"It takes time, I assume. I bet it's hard."

"And what's harder is everyone telling me I should do it or else."

Her upbeat energy depletes, and her shoulders loosen. "I suppose we are going the wrong way about it. Forcing it down your throat."

"I mean, come on. Me, a queen? Fairytales being real? It's ridiculous."

"Want to know what's even more ridiculous? Waking up from a curse and realizing you missed out on twenty-eight years of your life. Finding out that the entire world thinks you don't exist because you're a character from a book they read. That's ridiculous."

"I have no idea what you just said."

"Curses?" She puts her weight onto her right leg, crossing an arm over herself to hold her elbow. "No, you wouldn't, would you?"

"I need to find my parents. Do you think you can help me before you have to get to school?"

"I'd like to, but," she turns her head, still maintaining eye contact, "I thought you weren't looking to make friends."

I take a deep breath, letting my head hang to the side. I knew that would come back to bite me. "Don't take it personally. I'm never looking to make friends."

"Even if I help, I wouldn't know where to start. I never met your parents. Only Henry seems to know."

"Why is that? Emma, Mary Margaret, and Killian know my mother. You'd think they'd know where she is, but Henry?"

"I'm assuming you were going to the Town Hall to find out," she says, still in her pose, but with a bounce on her heel.

I shrug and reposition my stance. "Maybe."

"I don't think Regina will help you. Especially after that night."

"How do you—"

"People talk in a small town."

"I always hated that about small towns."

With the hand gripping her other arm, she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "I know a great place where we could talk more about this. It's not far from here."

"I'd really just like to try the Town Hall."

"But Regina—"

"Is the Mayor. She can't refuse to help me."

"She could since you're a..." she lowers her eyes, "felon."

I stare hard at her.

"You can't deny it. Don't be mad 'cause I'm right."

"Sorry, but I don't need your help."

"Oh, Dios mío," she says, putting a hand on her forehead. "Didn't you ask me for help?"

"That was before you called me a felon."

"You vandalized a storefront. I'm sorry. Is that not a felony?"

Not wanting to continue this conversation but knowing she won't let me leave, I say, "Where is this place?"

Delilah takes me to the café I was at yesterday—Be Our Guest. What a surprise? The inside's a different experience from the outdoor seating. Many teenagers dressed in Delilah's uniform sit at tables with either friends or laptops or stand in line. The entire room smells of fresh brewed coffee. The baristas hustle behind the counter, making the beverages. Coffee grinders and frothing machines clink and clang, but it's hushed by the soft French music from the ceiling speakers.

The decor's a mixture of rustic and classiness. The dark wooden planked floors contrast with the elegant golden tables. Crystal chandeliers hang from both ends of the room.

Delilah and I hop on the long line, but it's moving.

"Thanks for agreeing to this," she says.

"No problem."

"I thought we could get to know each other better."

"Sure." I never had friends my age before. Heck, I never had friends before. None that lasted, anyway. Killian doesn't count—only because he's not my age or a girl. I can't talk to him about my true personal life, boys, or clothes. Delilah's the closest thing I've got to that right now, and I don't want to mess it up. Who knows how long it'll be before I get this opportunity again?

"First things first—What's your favorite color?" she says.

"Oh, we're doing this?" I ask, leaning back.

She shrugs, playful. "Down to the basics."

"Purple."

"Blue. Your turn."

"What's - your - fav-or-ite..." I drag out each word as I think, "food?"

"Granny's lasagna," she says like it's a no-brainer.

"Chocolate."

"Food. That's a candy."

"It's still edible."

"Fine. Then what's your favorite meal?"

"Hmm... Burgers."

"Have you had one at Granny's yet?"

"No."

"Dude, you're missing out. Psst." She leans in and puts her hand against the side of her face. "Ask for the cheese to be put in the patty," she whispers in an excitable tone. "Makes all the difference," she speaks up again.

"Thanks," I smile, being polite. "I'll remember that."

"Your turn," she says, bumping her shoulder into mine.

I hesitate a bit at the sudden gesture. We're not friends yet. I ask her, "What's your favorite book?"

"Girl, I don't read." We laugh. "I guess from what I had to read for school..." she scrunches her face, "The Great Gatsby."

"Harry Potter. Preferably the first one."

"That would be The Sorcerer's Stone."

I'd correct her and say, "It's technically called The Philosopher's Stone," but it's rude to correct people you're trying to be friends with. Besides, even I call it The Sorcerer's Stone. I'm an American.

"Ah. So, you do read?" I say instead. Teasing is better than correcting.

"No, I watch TV," she says with a smile.

This seems to be going well. So far. But my heart's racing. It's been a while since I hung out with someone my age. What if I mess it up? What if she doesn't like me?

I can do it, right? Small talk. Bonding. That's possible. All I can do is try.

It's almost our turn to order.

"What's good here?" I ask, looking up at the menu boards.

"Vanilla latté. I get it all the time. It's better than Granny's—Don't tell her I said that," she says, horrified.

"No."

"You like chocolate? Get the mocha."

I gasp, excited. "Yes, please," I whisper. "Last time, I ordered regular, plain old coffee."

"Don't ever make that mistake again."

"I won't."

"It's all about the flavors," she says in a strange voice as if imitating someone. I don't ask since I don't wanna insult her in case she was trying to be funny.

"Hi, girls," the barista says when it's our turn. She has black hair tied into a messy ponytail.

"Hi, Melody. The usual, please. And a caffè mocha." Delilah turns to me. "Croissants?"

"Sure."

She faces Melody. "One butter croissant and one chocolate, too, please."

"Coming right up."

"You come here a lot, don't you?" I ask Delilah.

"This is my Granny's. But I do go over there now and then. It depends on the day and whether I want lasagna."

"'Cause you can't get it here."

"Nope." She turns to Melody to pay.

"We can split it? I feel bad," I say.

"No, I'm paying. I invited you here. You're our town's guest, so keep your money in your wallet or pocket or... wherever you keep it. I don't know."

She's funny. I could use a friend like her.

"Thanks," Delilah says when Melody gives her our order on a gold metallic tray. "Let's find a place to sit."

She claims a table for us in front of the window and lays out our food.

"One mocha and chocolate, and one vanilla and butter." Her face expresses a realization. "Light," she motions her hand over her side of the table, "and dark," she says, gesturing toward my side. She gapes at me with excitement, and for a second, it seems she thinks I've caught on to her revelation. "Blonde," she lifts strands of her hair, "and brunette." She reaches to touch mine.

"Don't touch my hair," I say, leaning away and covering my locks.

"Oh, I'm so excited. Every blonde needs a brunette. This friendship was destined, girl." She takes a seat.

"I'm sure friendships are," I sit, "based on more than hair color."

"Try your mocha," she says, impatient to see my reaction.

The coffee has a thin layer of foam floating on top with a heart and leaves design. I raise the turquoise mug to my lips, careful not to let the drink spill over the rim. "Dang, that's good." I lick the foam off my lip.

"If you want coffee done right, you come here." Delilah checks behind her, then lowers her voice and says, "Even Ruby comes here."

"I agree, but there's something about diner coffee."

"You mean that bitter aftertaste or how it tastes like caffeinated dishwater?" She twists her face and shudders.

I like this. Since when do I get to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee? And with another human being? Is this what living feels like? For the longest time, all I did was survive. I've forgotten what it's like to live. Coffee at a French café in a unique, enchanting town with a potential friend? This is happening to me? There's an urge to pinch myself, but I don't have to. I've never had a dream like this. This is real.

This is real life.

And I'm living it.

"Do you have a charger? I left mine at the foster home."

"Yeah, sure." Delilah takes out a portable charger from her bag.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

I plug my phone into it and let it sit on the table to charge.

"Are you expecting a call or something?"

"No. It's been dead for a while, and I'd feel better if it had some juice. So, how long have you lived in Storybrooke?"

"Twenty-nine years."

I was about to lift my mug back up, but I look at her, not understanding. She said it as though it were the most casual, straightforward piece of information ever. "But," I begin to say, still trying to comprehend what she told me, "...you're my age."

"Didn't Henry tell you about the curse?"

"You know? I was starting to like you because you don't keep pestering me about magic and fairytales. Well, except for those two times. And you also don't think you know me like many others do."

"Because I don't know you. I never met Anna," she says, lifting her baby pink mug.

I return to her question with a sigh. "All Henry told me was that Mayor Mills cast it, and Emma broke it."

"Yeah, there's a lot more to it than that. And you can call her Regina. It's fine," she says with a dismissive hand wave. "We all do it."

I fold my arms on the table's edge and lean on them. "Tell me more about the cur—"

My phone turns on, and it dings like crazy.

Delilah sits wide-eyed, offering a bemused grin as it flashes like lightning. "Seems like someone really wanted to get a hold of you."

I flip my phone. The notifications keep piling on top of each other, but my stomach drops to my... stomach when I see they're from Agatha.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I swipe on the first text, put in my password, and read what that bitch has to say.

Where the fuck are you?!

Curt is pressing charges for wrecking his car.

The police and the system are looking for you.

Diane's pissed.

Are you alive?

Hello?

Heeeellllllooooo?????

Where the fuck did you go??

Quit ignoring me!

Did you die?

Curt's gonna have you arrested.

I wouldn't come back if I were you.

I stare at my cracked phone, reading the texts over and over, my stomach churning. Water forms in my mouth, reappearing split seconds after each swallow. It's hot. I could puke at any moment.

"Bella?"

I text Agatha, "I don't plan to," and put my phone on silent. "I'm fine," I mutter.

Delilah glances at my phone. "Did someone text you bad news or something?" she asks, sliding her chair closer.

"Uh... Sort of." I swallow once more.

"Who? What did they say?"

"It's this girl from my foster home. She said the system's looking for me."

"They won't find you here," she says with confidence, and I tilt my head. She then takes a bite from her croissant and sets it back on the white dish.

How could she be so sure? There's not a single hint of worry or insecurity on her face.

She talks with her mouth full. "The town's protected by magic. No one can get in unless they're from Fairytale Land..." She gulps down the food. "But you got in. That makes you one of us."

"I'm not one of you. I'm not crazy."

"Ouch."

"What happens if someone not from your world approaches Storybrooke and drives down the same road I took to get here?"

"They won't see Storybrooke. It's invisible to them. All they'll see is forest. I believe there's a dead end in the road somewhere, and then it's just woods. So, anyone trying to get here will see what was here before the curse—trees." She smothers her croissant with the whipped butter from the porcelain ramekin, wiping both sides of the knife over the flaky bread. "It's because of Belle's cloaking spell. Gold told her to cast it while we were in Neverland."

"What about outsiders who go into the forest to camp or hunt?"

"Oh, there're probably people camping out right here." She gestures her hand around the café. "We just can't see them, and they can't see us."

"So, ...Storybrooke technically doesn't exist?"

"Well," she drags out, "the curse created it. If Regina decided to undo it, everything would go back to the way it was twenty-nine years ago—forest." She notices my worried face. "You're safe here. They can't get you."

I sigh. "Good." I pocket my phone.

"So, what's your foster home like?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Sorry. I'm curious."

"It sucks. Happy, now?"

She slouches in her seat and says, "I didn't mean to hit a nerve."

"Then you shouldn't have asked."

Delilah's silent.

Sometimes I hate self-fulfilling prophecies. Why must I always sabotage myself? I try to live, and it turns out like this—surviving. I don't want walls. I need a bulldozer to destroy them. But I don't have a bulldozer. Or a wrecking ball. Or explosives. I don't have anything that could get rid of them. Instead, I have materials to make them impenetrable.

I'm destined to be alone forever.

"I'm sorry. I thought this was going well," Delilah says, small.

I don't say anything. All I do is lower my head, and my hand goes to my pocket.

Delilah pushes her chair out and stands.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"Let me give you some advice. And don't worry. I say this as an ally, not a friend. Don't jump off a cliff when you don't find your parents. And don't get mad at the others, either. It's Henry you should focus on. He's the one who brought you here." She pushes in her chair, getting ready to leave.

I angle my head to view her conflicted face. "Is there something you know that I don't?"

She looks at me and pauses. "No." She stays there for a few seconds, then walks away from the table.

You've done it again, idiot. You let another potential friendship walk out the door.