THE PITTER PATTER of the rain is somewhat melancholic, a set pathetic fallacy awaiting a foreboding reaction I refuse to provide.

My fingertips run over the soft tufts of white feathers adorning my feather boa. Yet another fundraiser. All of the investors will be gathered in Albert Hall with their boisterous ideas and broadening voices forbidding even the loudest a chance at speech. It burns my ears.

I close my eyes and sigh. If anything, it's more interesting than lessons with Ramona or training with Julio.

I slowly stand a stalk to the full-length mirror at the back of the room. I adjust the neck of the black, sequin-adorned champagne dress I'm wearing and take a few deep breaths. I may have attended these rather regularly since the age of seven, but never have I gotten used to it. The anxiety manifests itself as a hit to the stomach, refusing me any air and leaving me with the wind knocked out of my lungs, or strangles me, bidding any dignity farewell.

I drape the boa around my neck and shut the door, leaving for the car. The night is sleek and damp, like a silky jaguar slinking in and out of tall, skinny trees, its spots of white salt strewn across the sky like a spread of crystals. The night is meek and elegant. Why shouldn't it be?

As soon as I walk into Albert Hall, the smell of alcohol and tar pierce my sinuses. Men with stomachs rounder than round and fat rolls of cigars set between two, even fatter sausage fingers chat away, rudely belting political statements no one cared for across the room like blunt-edged arrows.

Soon enough, I am grabbed by the arm of my mother, who positions me rather conveniently next to my father who's in the middle of what anyone hopes to be a very interesting conversation.

"Ah, yes, and this is my daughter. The one I've been telling you about." He turns to me, subtly nudging my elbow. "Don't be shy now, Evangeline."

That nudge and the use of 'Evangeline' instead of, 'Lina' as per within the house conveys the soft message of: Talk to her or I'll kill you.

The person in question was none other than Roberta Handel, a snobbish old witch no one likes. She's bone thin, with a sharp angular jaw and nose, chin always jutted as she eyes you with beady orbs of disappointment, never approving.

"I take she's been trained, yes?" She inquires, nodding her head slightly at me. The bright white light examines her face as it catches her bold, sharp eyeshadow. Streaks of blue, orange and pale read streak her eyes like a myriad of inks.

"Trained beyond measure. She's a real asset." My father responds.

I find it in me not to flinch. He speaks of me as though I am not sentient- a circus monkey.

"She'll do fine then."

After this, the conversation no longer involves me, so I allow myself grace to mentally slide away, the only sign of me being alive being the continuous movement of my left hand slowly swirling the drink in the tall glass before me.

I watch as air bubbles start to form, small and innocent, only to be pushed and forced upward to the air above it with each turn of the black, plastic straw.

"Apologies for my tardiness." A voice, slow, sexy and sultry states. It's boyish undertones snap me out of my unconventional stimming.

The voice belongs to the face of someone I do not recognise.

His eyes are heavy with tiredness, but I can still tell that they are soft and feminine. His dark hair is curly and wayward, an absolute mess barely tamed as he seems to have attempted to style it. I watch as his mother scolds him for it, but his eyes never leave my face.

They are beady, though innocent-looking at first, searching and searching with a very small whisper of a smile.

He spots my father and shakes his hand. "Tommy Handel."

I memorise it.

Satisfyingly, the dinner ends at the reasonable time of midnight. It's dark outside, the sky filled with stars like scattered grains of salt. I wash my hands and face in the toilets and step into the corridors.

The hallway follows the same theme as the main rooms; gold and black with beautiful bright lights under each skirting board.

I am so engrossed in this admiration that I do not notice the incoming person beside me, so we end up colliding.

"I am so sorry." They say.

"It's fine. I should've been paying attention."


"E-Eva?"

I look up at the very familiar face before me. Dark hair neatly pulled back, dark eyes and angular features- a direct contrast to Handel. Even worse, I actually know this one. A little too well.

I clear my throat awkwardly to attempt to alleviate the tension. "Taehyung."


"Evangeline." He mutters in disbelief, refusing to mirror my politeness. "It's been so long."

"I don't like this." I say, gathering myself before old feelings attempt to slip out and scatter themselves like a mess on the Fereghan Sarouk. "It was good seeing you. I'll be leaving now."


"Wait." He says, catching up with my intentionally long strides and gripping my bare upper arm. I shake him off.

"What?" I snap.

He shakes his head. "It's been too long, Eva. How could you so easily walk away?"


"It's getting late and my parents are waiting for me." I smile plainly and decide not to stay any longer, walking away briskly.

I sneak open my compact mirror as I walk, using the periphery to spy on what is going on behind me. Much to my surprise, he still stands there, watching as I walk away.

It wouldn't be the first time.