12 | in which he sees past her walls

She's a maze,

With no escape.

.\.|./.

Ryan Falls

|in which he sees past her walls|

Sometimes God grants us second chances.

Chances to fix things we never planned on breaking.

Make up for mistakes we never intended on making.

Maybe that's why coincidences happen.

Coincidences aren't accidents at all. They're the universe's way of redirecting our attention towards what matters.

Why else would I be seeing her again and again? First at Kobuk cafe, then at the hospital, now here. What are the chances that in a state of over seven hundred thousand people, it would be her car I threw myself in front of? There has to be something else. There has to be another explanation.

If I had known it would take another painful injury to see her again, I would have thrown myself down the stairs over a week ago.

Maybe she's like those little guardian angels God sends down to watch over the people he cares about.

I hardly know her. Okay, actually I don't know her at all. I don't know her name, or who she is, or why she keeps popping up into my solitary life uninvited.

I admit, it was I who threw myself in her way last time, but this time must be my chance of making up for the mess I caused for her. It's not easy knowing you're responsible for someone else's pain. Decent people don't want that. Decent people would rather be hurt in themselves than hurt others.

The world doesn't have many decent people.

I'm lucky I found one of the rare ones.

She's one of those decent people, as far as I can tell. She's got those vibes, and I've learned to trust my vibes. When your gut tells you to stay away from someone, obey. When your heart tells you to trust someone, don't just do it because you feel like it. It's easier to love than it is to trust. Maybe that's why the latter hurts more than the former.

For this reason, though, I think she feels bad for what happened to me. She's here, helping me and trying to make up for what she thinks was her fault. It wasn't, but she doesn't know that. I have a sense she blames herself for hitting me with her car, just like I blame myself for hitting her car with myself. The only difference here is, my guilt is justified and hers ill-placed.

She's not like most people I encounter. Or most girls I encounter, to be exact. Back in LA, almost every girl who was in close proximity to me wanted to get a piece of the action. Who am I? What do I do? What do I like? Do I have a girlfriend? These were just a few of the questions they all asked me sooner or later.

I was a mystery, and they expected me to be the cliché. Hot guy, secrets, dark aura -- bad boy. That was the impression everyone had of me.

How freaking wrong they were.

This girl, though, doesn't look at me like she wants to know me. She looks like she would rather forget she ever saw me and go back into whatever hole she just crawled out of.

That's what surprises me about her, just like the last three times I saw her. She doesn't want to be here, yet she is. The worry in her eyes, the panic etched into every subtle line of her face ... She doesn't know me. Why then is she so concerned? Why is she here?

I haven't stopped thinking about her, not like in a I-want-to-get-into-her-pants kinda way, but rather like I-want-to-apologize-for-being-an-asshole kinda way. I didn't want to be a dick to Olivia, so I kept my thoughts to myself, but I was far from okay with the way she treated this girl that morning.

All she was doing was bringing me soup.

I like soup.

I'm hoping she'll make soup for me right now.

After the large amount of unappetizing food I have been eating recently -- courtesy of Olivia -- I'm sure I'll be hospitalized again, this time because of food poisoning.

Hopefully, though, this girl's cooking will be better than Olivia's.

From my spot in bed, I can see her moving around in my kitchen. Her blonde hair is tied in a messy braid, which waves around when she moves. She's tall too, taller than most girls, dressed in what appears to be a faded, moss-green sweater and a pair of black jeans. She keeps pushing her hair back when they fall into her face, and after a while, I see her pull them up into a tight bun so they won't bother her anymore.

By the time she comes back into the room, my stomach is growling so loud I'm sure people in LA can hear it.

Thank God, this girl is here.

She holds a small tray out for me to take and I shift into a reclining position.

"Thank you," I say, taking the plate in my uninjured hand and placing it on my lap. There is a freshly made sandwich on the plate, and I want to thank heavens for something that doesn't smell like frozen leftovers.

She doesn't answer, turning away before I can see her face. Most girls look away when complimented or thanked, because they want to pretend to hide the color in their cheeks. This girl isn't blushing. She isn't smiling. She's just blank.

Or maybe she just hates me and wants me dead.

My eyes on her, I use my good hand to unnoticeably pick up the bread and look at what's inside. I see nothing that I mind, so instead of saying anything to the unsuspecting angel who is keeping me from dying of starvation, I subtly construct it again and raising it to my mouth.

A delighted moan escapes my lips, making me freeze suddenly in embarrassment.

Did I just moan in pleasure?

And apparently, even food can turn me on. No wonder women think the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Honestly, though, that's utter bullshit. The heart is where it should be, nowhere but there.

I look up at the girl, who thankfully doesn't comment on my weirdness. I do see her fighting a smile, though.

Way to be a creep, Ryan.

I clear my throat. "This ... it's really good."

"Thanks," she says, sounding somewhat surprised.

Why would she be surprised? Does she think her sandwiches are not good? How can anyone make bad sandwiches? All you have to do is slap a bunch of stuff between two slices of bread and place it on a plate.

I don't point that out, though, fully enjoying my sandwich and hoping I never have to eat Olivia's cooking again. Maybe I can ask this girl to cook for me every day and I can pay her for it. She looks like she'd like the chance too, a chance to do something.

"I should go," she says all of a sudden, probably freaked out by my rabid eating of the sandwich.

"Why?" I blurt out, instantly regretting my question "I mean ... okay."

The girl doesn't answer, turning away and making her way towards the door. I put down my half-eaten sandwich, wondering if I should or should not thank her again.

"Wait!" I stop her, hoping she would be the one to speak. This is the fourth time I'm seeing her and I haven't seen the girl either smile or talk the way normal people should.

I don't mean to say she's abnormal, but ... it's weird.

"You didn't tell me your name," I point out, watching out for any change in her expression. She just looks more annoyed.

"Crystal," she says, pulling open the door without a pause and walking out.

The door closes behind her. Between us.

"Crystal," I murmur to myself, feeling the taste of her name on my tongue.

I don't know what it is about her that intrigues me, but there's just something about her. Something dark. Something secret. Something there, brewing underneath her surface and just waiting to come out. I can feel it, the waves crashing, the wheels churning, the lava bubbling and boiling.

I know, because I was once exactly that. Eleven years I spent in this silence, the silence of hoping somebody would hear my unuttered screams. I scowled at the world, hoping someone would see the tears in my eyes. I broke things -- and people -- hoping someone would be smart enough to see all my broken shards.

No one did.

No one heard.

No one saw.

No one noticed.

No one cared.

I lean back against the pillows, staring unseeingly at the blank, wooden surface of the door she closed behind her as she left. My mind is a million miles away, floating in the wind and following the girl who is a mystery in herself.

A girl just waiting to be heard in the abyss.

A girl just waiting to be seen in the darkness.

A girl waiting to be saved.

And maybe it's my own experience of wanting someone to do that for me, that now I want to be that person for her.

I want to see her. Hear her. Notice her.

I want to care.

Because I want to know. I want to know who tainted this beautiful crystal.

And maybe she wants to be known too.

Maybe ... she wants to be caught before she falls.

.\.|./.

A/N: Liking Ryan now? What do you like most about him?

If you were Crystal, would you do the same thing she did? I know I would.

Song suggested by dalinamootin ❤️