"Green streaks of joy and appreciation shoot up at her face in the form of his infinite irises. She thinks of moss across a giant fallen oak tree. Sad but still beautiful."

Anna connects to the words of her new favorite book "Mosaic" she has open in front of her. Silent Hour was always the perfect time for her to dedicate attention to her reading and escaping. This time in the institution is much like study hall in high school. The room should have been designed to make the tenants comfortable but instead they place everyone in hard desks, in rigid rows. A vice principal-like orderly, nearly half asleep, sits at the front of the space, a chalkboard behind him which is never used, save the words "SILENT TIME" written in bolded white font.

"As a super, it's his job to fix what is broken. And in the hidden ecosystem of The Mare's Nest, nothing would make him happier than to connect the cracks in Mara's broken, gorgeous soul."

She folds the corner of the page down, the last line bringing closure to her reading, and closes the book.

She brings out her notepad to doodle some of her thoughts. While in Silent Hour, the patients have an assignment to do a "reflective" journal entry. With fifteen minutes left, she knows now is due time to get the dreaded assignment over with. As soon as she touches her ancient mechanical pencil to the paper, she feels something hit the back of her neck. The old walls of the establishment are known for housing neurotic critters like moths, bats and damaged humans. She writes it off, until she feels it again.

Frantically brushing her neck, she turns to find two wadded up pieces of paper next to the tarnished metal of the bottom half of her desk. She looks around, a highly suspicious Harry sitting at the back trying his hardest to look inconspicuous.

Grabbing the papers, she places them at the corner of her desk and continues to frantically write her mandatory entry. Her handwriting is messy and aggressive with upset over the practices of the institution, using words like "asylum" and "farm." The patients are cattle. All treated the same when every brain is drastically different. She's never felt more vindicated, finally letting her thoughts out like a hole in a dam, slowly turning turning to a crack and then a crumbling wall. Maybe it was her meeting with Harry or maybe it was the program starting to work. Whatever the reason, the cathartic feeling of knowing these words would be read by those in charge here makes her feel in charge of her own body and thoughts.

There it is again. The flutter on the back of her neck. This time, two pieces of paper sit by her feet. Harry's arms are folded on his desk, his body hunched over, chin resting on his knuckles, awaiting her acknowledgment.

She mouths "what the fuck" at him when she finally meets his eyes, followed by a point to her journal. "Do your assignment," Anna whispers.

"Read my notes!" Harry yells across the room. The echo of his voice wakes up the man at the front of the room, his sterile white scrubs sloppily stained with coffee and mustard from his lunch.

"HEY! STYLES! Silent means SILENT. Get back to work!" The man yells back.

"Yes, sir!" Harry salutes. With his chin lifted, he smiles at Anna who is trying to subdue her nervous laughter. He mouths, with exaggerated miming: "READ. MY. NOTES."

She grabs one of the papers and irons out the deep crinkles with her hands.

"What are you doing?" Being silent, of course. She fans out another note.

"Why didn't you sit next to me?" I got here before you. Why didn't you sit next to me?

"Why aren't you paying attention to me?" Because up until this point I thought you were a moth.

"Do you like me? Circle one."

Her eyes dart down to the bottom of the note. The only options he gives are YES or
OH BABY YEAH. This particular note makes her giggle mercilessly. She swivels her body and finds Harry, feet up on his desk, hands behind his head, his exterior relaxed and controlled. She writes the word "MAYBE" at the bottom of the paper. She designs her response in careless block letters, draws stars and hearts in the margins and circles her art several times, breaking what's left of the graphite.

Bunching up the parchment, she throws the wad of paper and throws it as hard as her weak upper body can. She watches as he opens it, his top teeth bite down into his bottom lip. The nature of their friendship is interesting. It quickly blossomed from helpful, to playful, to an undeniable chemistry brewing between the two of them. She's never really had a crush before. But this is intoxicating.

She covers her mouth, awaiting his reaction.

"MAYBE?" Harry screams, ripping up the paper. "She said 'maybe,' Aggie. Can you believe that?" He looks over to Agatha Williams at the desk beside him and throws the pieces of Anna's response up into the air.

Anna bursts out into uncontrollable laughter. Suddenly aware of her loud volume, she covers her mouth again and looks up at the orderly at the front of the room.

"THAT IS IT!" The man slams his fists on the desk. "You and you," he says, pointing at Harry and Anna. "Garden duty. Three days. Get out of here now and get to your rooms."

Harry promptly stands, with both hands behind his back like a punished soldier. Walking past her desk, Anna notices he holds a piece of paper. He moves it up and down to catch her attention. Grabbing the note, she shoves it in her pocket and walks out to the hall and to her room.

* * *

Young love is a funny and chaotic thing. In the midst of the feelings, it's all encompassing. It will be the end of you. You watch the story unravel in front of your eyes and know it'll eventually be your demise. But you're okay with it. You accept it. It's all worth it because the emotions attached to being accepted and admired distract you from the inevitable heartache. You'll be the exception to the rule. This will be the story you tell your great grandchildren at Thanksgiving. How you beat the trials and tribulations in the name of love.

These thoughts, however, have never crossed Anna's mind before. This is uncharted territory. She's Magellan, navigating the open seas, depending on the fates and the map of the stars to bring her to sanctuary.

Her father squashed any start to romance in her troubled past. The object of her potential affection was never good enough to be pictured in the press. Came from a family too "humble" to be considered a good candidate to join their family. As a result of her dad's constant repression, she learned to repress those feelings herself. She would never fall for anyone on her own free will. She would never be nervous, palms sweaty and shaky, to go on a first date. She would never wonder if she picked the right outfit for dinner or if her personality was dazzling. Her suitor would be chosen for her. Hand picked by her parents from the grocery store produce section. A mass produced red apple while beautiful imperfect orchards grew on the other side of the beige walls.

"Fuck it," she mumbles to herself. She practically rips Harry's note in half trying to open it.

Room 404. 10 PM.

She looks at the clock. 9:59. She puts on her slippers and fastens her robe and makes her way to his room. Her motivation to go is a mystery. She doesn't think about whether she should or shouldn't. Since meeting Harry, she isn't big into overthinking anything.

Sneaking by oblivious nurses and workers, she makes it to his room. With three quiet knocks, the door creaks open. Her shirt is grabbed and she's yanked inside.

"WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?" Harry yells his whisper.

"What are you talking about? It's two after 10."

"You strike me as the kinda girl that thinks she's late unless she's five minutes early, is all. But seems I'm rubbing off on you a bit more than I thought." Harry gives a devious smirk and sits on the foot of his bed. Harry has no roommate. He's the only other resident, other than Anna, who doesn't. Her parents paid extra to assure she didn't. He, on the other hand, didn't because after multiple stays, was known for being a "bad influence." This detail is kept hidden from Anna at the moment. "So I have to ask... 'maybe?' Really?"

It takes few seconds for it to register that he's referring to her response to his question from Silent Hour earlier. "You still on about that? You already got us three days of garden duty."

"Worth it. I've always considered myself somewhat of a hopeless romantic. Grand gestures are my forte." Harry leans back, his shoulder blades bouncing on the cheap springs of his mattress. The muted sound of the rust-ridden coils bounce off the cold, white walls of the room.

"That was a grand gesture, huh?" She sits on the bed and lays back beside him. The two look mindlessly at the ceiling, the beats of their hearts quickening from the close proximity to the other.

He inhales through his nostrils, orchestrating his next witty line, but he's taken aback. She smells like oranges and lavender. Like comfort. Like fresh-squeezed juice on a tired morning with a hint of Christmas. He closes his eyes and takes it all in. Overcome by faint memories, he grabs her hand, his eyes still on the ceiling.

She turns her head to him. He doesn't look back. If he does, he'll be lost forever with no turning back. It was in both of their best interests if he averted his eyes for a few more minutes.

"What was on your list, Harry?" she asks.

"Let's just say it's under construction." Taking several deep breaths to gain his composure, he looks over at her solemn face. The two lay centimeters apart. The skin of his chest twitches to the pounding of his heart, each small beat its own grand gesture. "Watch this. Don't go anywhere, okay? I know you'll miss me."

"Alright?"

Harry walks to the door of his room and turns off the lights. His journey is only a few seconds, but in that brief period of time, she does miss him, even though she may not know it fully.

Glow-in-the-dark stars, crescent moons and planets illuminate the ceiling in the darkness of the room. Being stuck in the facility rarely afforded them opportunities to look at the real sky. This seems just as monumental.

"The previous tenant put these up. They never took em down, surprisingly." Harry lays back down beside her. "Beautiful, right?" She has no idea he's actually looking at her.

"I love when the air is clear enough to see the stars," she says with a smile. "I think the last time I saw the stars like this was when we were on the roof."

"I don't remember. I wasn't looking at the stars that night." He grasps her hand again, staring at her porcelain skin under the synthetic starlight.

The faux galaxy above them adds a sweet, neon glow to her cheekbones. She looks like a comic book character from his childhood. An illustration that makes him want to dive into the pages and live in a drawn, Andy Warhol-like world where problems don't exist.

She turns her body to him. The smell of musk and vanilla makes its way up her lips and to her nose, his pheromones touching each piece of her brain as she processes the conflicting scents.

"Harry?" she asks.

He turns on his side, facing her directly. "Yeah?"

"Do you think I'm a good person?"

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Do you think I'm a good person?" Her eyelids flutter, awaiting his answer.

"I think you're the best kind of person." He grabs her rib cage and brings her closer to him.

"What do you mean?" A single tear falls down her cheek and to the tip of her nose.

Harry wipes it away with his index finger and presses his palm against her jawline. "Exactly what I said. You're the best kind of person."

With bated breath, she looks deep into Harry's eyes in search of the answers she's so desperately been seeking. He is her painkiller. Her electric-shock therapy. He'll grab her hand and lead her to the grassy field where she can lay and allow the droplets of condensation on the tall blades to fall on her skin and take in every sensation. The smell of new rain hitting the elements. The taste of fresh air. The sight of cedar trees and freshly cut lumber. Her time with Harry has been more productive than the countless minutes she spent in Silent Hour sessions.

I'm the best kind of person. She internalizes the message, unsure of how to respond.

"Promise me something, Anna." Harry requests, pulling her even closer to him. His breath makes its way out of his lips and to hers. She takes in the solace flavor.

She closes her eyes and soaks in the feeling of his skin against the thick fabric of her robe. Fighting to keep her eyes open, she predicts this will be the best night of sleep she's had in years. So much so that she accepts the defiance of laying in another's bed. The juice is worth the squeeze.

Her silence was a non-verbal queue for him to continue.

"Promise that me and you will never end up in a place like this again. Deal?" Harry plants a soft kiss on her forehead and brings his eyes back to hers.

"Not a deal. A pact."