26 | Merging Lane

SÁBADO

6:49 AM

Dahlia Gray

"Hey," I mumble, reaching out to Harlow as he reverses out of my driveway. His tired blue eyes are occupied with dark circles, the corner of his mouth ticks with agitation and his hair disheveled from waking up at the crack of dawn. I retract my hand.

"What?" He demands, shifting the gear into drive as he accelerates forward. The sun slowly rises from beneath the horizon, brightening the sky with temporal blue and little chirps of birds at the first glimpse of daylight. I don't respond. "What were you going to say?"

I hear traces of irritation building behind his tone, unable to disguise due to his drowsiness obstructing his social filter. I knew he didn't mean the attack behind his tongue, but Harlow speaks sharply—sharp enough to cut ice.

I swallow a gulp, pulling my hands into fists and releasing. My lips pressed together, suddenly weighed down with the feeling that I was a bother to his presence. Maybe I shouldn't have called him.

"Rosemary," he barks, not too tired to give me another nickname. "Tell me."

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes, before returning back to the road. The engine rumbles with each mile passing, the trees bypassing our windows as Harlow quickens the speed, and I feel the tension stirring between us.

"I...I just...I just wanted to say thank you," I mumble quietly, almost indistinguishable. A mere gratitude isn't enough for waking him at six in the morning. I feel awful. "For driving me."

This morning, when I woke up to prepare for my job, I received a text from SAINT Laboratories asking me to come in at eight am sharp. It was ominous, and I was on the edge of time—rushing to get to the bus stop before I missed it.

But it wouldn't have work. If I took the normal routine to go to work, I would've been forty minutes late—and that doesn't account for traffic, or extra stops or anything.

I was screwed.

Under my panic, I called Harlow and asked him to drive me to work. It was a slim chance he would answer and agree, but to my surprise, he did. He picked up on the second call, and he groggily got ready as fast he could on the phone with me.

Ten minutes later, he's here.

"You don't have to fucking thank me," he said, shaking his head at the thought. "I'm here. Anything you need."

My heart warms at the proclamation and I feel myself offering a soft smile. However, the gritty feeling at the pit of my stomach still rages, dictating everything I've done and asked of him is just added trouble.

I swallow hard. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"You're not," he declares instantly, taking a sharp turn down the highway. "You're never a fucking bother to me, and I don't ever want to hear you apologize for it."

My heart bursts, entering waves of foreign emotions. I squeak, "for real?"

"Honest," he nods, taking one hand off the steering wheel and reaching over to grab mine. It was a subtle action, nothing attached to the gesture, but it helped heal a couple of burden emotions I felt.

I smile, allowing him to hold me. I lean back against the leather seat of Presley's car, adjusting myself comfortably to the passenger side. I'm not usually on this side of the ride.

The ride was quiet, but comfortable. Since I'm not taking the bus, it'll take about an hour and fifteen minutes to reach SAINT. The sky illuminates with a bright blue as time stretches, skyscrapers and urban buildings form behind the concrete bridges and roads, and billboards take up every couple miles. Multicolored cars occupy the space in front of us and behind; everyone waking up for work.

I didn't want to talk, and neither did Harlow. I found that nice about us; our conversations were never strained with the intense need to fill the silence, instead we allow ourselves to be seduced by such. It was different, but I doubt I had anyone else that felt this way.

"Rosemary," I mumble, turning to Harlow. One hand occupying the steering wheel, the other one wrapped between my fingers.

"What?"

"You called me Rosemary," I repeat, reminding him of my nickname of the day. It dawned on me.

"Yeah?" His brows pulled together in confusion, as if he wasn't lucid enough to process where I'm leading the conversation. His blue eyes spare me another glance. "What about it?"

"It's a spice, Harlow." I said, a laugh tipping at the back of my throat. "It wasn't a flower."

His lips press together at the realization, and I could see the corner of his mouth tilt upwards. It was small, barely noticeable, but he shook his head to take away the gesture. He mutters, "it was one mistake."

I tilt my head to the side, teasing, "are you sure? Are you running out of flowers to name me? One day or another, you're going to have to call me Dahlia."

"I'm not running out of flowers," he snaps, a bit defensive. I never took him for a botanist. "It's early morning. Give me a fucking break."

The smile spreads across my lips, "so, you admit it? You're running out of flowers."

"I'm not running out of flowers," he snaps, a bit harsher this time. There's no malice behind his words, just a hollow aggression. "I'm just tired as shit."

"Hmm," I muse, to which I see him rolling his eyes. "Then give me another nickname? Preferably, not a spice."

I would never say it, but I grew somewhat fond of the idea that Harlow calls me a different flower everyday. It used to be annoying, where I had to correct him, but it became something of a ritual. To guess what's next. He knows my name—I know he does—he just chooses to taunt me, tease me about the origin of my flowery name.

He becomes silent for a second, and I consider all the names he called me. Lily, Daisy, Poppy, to name a few. I know there's more, I just couldn't think of it off the topic of my head.

"Chrysanthemum." He declares after a short thought, and my eyes widen at the choice he made.

"Chrysanthemum?" I repeat, to which he gives a subtle nod. He looks unbothered. "Out of all the names you could choose from, you chose Chrysanthemum?"

Harlow merely shrugs, his eyes pinned to the front. "You said you wanted a flower. I got you a fucking flower. Stop being fucking picky, Chrysanthemum."

I shake my head, and a chuckle escapes from the back of my throat. The smile on my face broadens, and we soon return to the silence. At this point of the ride, buildings have encompassed every ounce of space around us, natural habitats are replaced with guidance signs and asphalt flooring, and the faint outline of SAINT Laboratories begin to form.

Harlow stops at the front gate.

"What the absolute fuck?" He declares, shifting the gear into park. His blue eyes move from the front to the side window, taking the extraordinary view of the campus. "Are you going to an international college or are you working?"

"It's pretty." I agree, losing my fingers around his. He turns back to me as I unbuckle the seatbelt. "And we made it here with a few minutes to spare. Thank you."

He sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I thought we fucking went over this."

"We did," I nod, propping the door open as I step out. "I just had to say it. Thank you, again, for everything you've done for me. I appreciate it. A lot."

I didn't get the chance to hear him protest as I shut the door behind me, pulling the strap of my backpack around my shoulders. I head towards the front, buzzing myself in with the entrance code and enter through the gate.

I stop before proceeding and turn back around, checking to see if Harlow is still there.

He is.

I smile, and offer him a little wave before I continue.

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SÁBADO

12:56 PM

Dahlia Gray

"Guess who just finished registering for the research department?" I prompt, raising my newly printed employee ID card. Aysa glances up from her textbook, her expression blank from reaction, before returning back to her table full of books.

"This girl! Please, contain your excitement." I said, slipping into the seat in front of her, pushing a textbook that jabs its corner into my ribcage. Aysa bears no mind to my announcement, her eyes splitting from her notebook—scribbling down notes—to her array of textbooks propped open against the table. A couple courses sprawl out in the open: biology, calculus and organic chemistry to name a few.

I pick up one of the textbooks, the one furthest from her, and begin to examine the content inside. It was talking about human anatomy, giving a visually in-dept image of a woman.

The book was snatched out of my hand before I read a single passage.

"Stop it," Aysa declares sharply, dropping the textbook onto the table. She adjusts the army green hijab around her shoulders, draping it to the side. She gives me one final look. "I'm studying."

I nod, knowing the procedures that come with knowing Aysa Kamali. She likes the silence, especially during her studying hours, and she tends to bury herself underneath her textbook. I don't think I've ever seen her spend more than ten minutes on her phone.

I lean back against the seat and pull out my phone. My earbuds wrapped around the case, my inhaler burning a hole inside of my pocket. I unravel my own source of entertainment.

The music automatically plays on shuffle, and one earbud securely plugged in. I usually leave one out, on the off-chance that Aysa wants to start a conversation. For the most parts—it's never happened. But, never say never.

"Wait," I hold out my hand, catching Aysa's attention. "How long have you been studying?"

She rolls her eyes, probably finding the topic too insufficient to continue. "About two hours now."

"Don't you have work? Or like, interning to do?" I tilt my head to the side, sparing a sideway glance at the corridor connected to the back of the departments. "I swear they give us smaller breaks than that."

The corner of Aysa's lips pull to a smile. She shakes her head. "My department is building prototypes. They're heading over to test them in the other department and they're only allowing a couple of interns inside to monitor."

My brows wrinkle in confusion, "...and you didn't make the cut?"

She shakes her head, signifying that's not the issue. Of course. "No. I was one of their first choices. I just didn't feel like watching them test space technology. My division is biotechnology and engineering."

I nod in understanding. "So, you've been studying for two hours straight?"

"This is repetitive," Aysa declares, picking up her pen. "You already know the answer to that."

"No!" I hold out a finger, stopping her. Aysa has a logically-wired brain. She breaks things down into layers and observes each layer into their fundamentals. She understands each concept to their core—and if she doesn't, she follows-up with more research—and doesn't bother with repetition. That's why she shuts down conversations before they turn into repeats.

Unless, you can prove her wrong.

She cocks her head to the side, challenging me. I stay silent, trying to concoct a good argument against her. "I asked...how long you've been studying. That...equals to the total amount. You could've been studying for two hours but had breaks in between. That would not be considered studying straight."

I wince, hoping that was enough to deliver a counterargument to her entire logic system. She drops the smile, intertwines her fingers and prop her elbows onto the desk. "That was good," I smile, "but not enough." The smile falls.

"That derives from a hypothetical situation, without accounting for external factors of technicalities and personal patterns. If you said that about a stranger, that would've earnt a good debate—however, you know me, kid." She stops, eyeing me. "Am I the type of person to take breaks in between studying?"

I press my lips together, before shaking my head. "Exactly," she nods. "So, that deems my former statement true. It was repetitive."

"Coño," I swore, pouting. "I thought I got you."

"It was a good effort," she replies honestly, "but it was executed wrong."

I continue to pout, knowing she'll return back to her studying. "Can I still ask you my question?"

She sighs, but nods. "Of course."

"Since you've been studying for a long time now, I was going to ask if you could show me around? I know enough about the research department and how they use divisions to specialize on a specific network, but I want to see the testing labs and people building prototypes." I knew this was a slim chance she would say yes, so I quickly slapped my hangs together in a beg. "Please?"

Aysa looks unimpressed, like she wasn't affected by my gesture, and I knew her mind was spiraling with debates and internal conflicts. I quickly add on, "studies say that studying for a long time isn't good for you," I offer loosely. "And plus, having breaks and walking is proven good for your health."

The black girl cocks a brow at me, "says who?"

I wear a boyish smile. "Science?"

Aysa scoffs, shaking her head but I could see a faint smile growing on her face.

She stands from her chair, adjusting her thin black-and-white striped coat over her all-black jumpsuit. She throws one end of the headscarf across her neck, and the other drape in front of her chest.

I stay in my spot, unsure of what to do.

"Are you going to sit there, or do I have to drag you too?"

My mouth parts in realization before I shot up from my seat. I quickly realized that I was taller than Aysa, just by an inch. "Where are we going first?"

"Since I'm assuming you don't have work," she gives me a sideway glance, I nod. My advisors are setting up the work stations for the new interns that made it past the final round. "I'll start by showing you the research department where you're going to be working at. This is if you finish a full year of interning."

"I will." I promise, knowing it's trivial to tell Aysa my plans on finishing a full course at SAINT. I don't know exactly what I'm going to do in my future, but I know I could find it here.

"In Shaa Allah," Aysa responds, to which I wrinkle my brows in confusion. She doesn't pick this up and begins to walk towards the corridor, not checking behind to see if I follow.

I quicken my pace, following after her as we step deeper into the secrecy of the facility; where the floor-to-ceiling windows are replaced with solid concrete, where natural sunlight is converted into artificial lighting hanging off the ceiling, and where successful models of technology are displayed down the halls in glass boxes with beam lights.

Our steps are hollow and click through the marble floors. Aysa is quiet, offering little commentary or information. As we pass more and more glass boxes, I recognize that each individual display owns a small plaque corresponding to the year it's built, who were the main engineers and research behind the committee, and what it does.

We stop in front of the research department. A big sign hangs in block letters, label RESEARCH. The double doors are the only entrance, and there's a metal detector that requires employee ID. "The research department focuses on space, aerospace, medical technology, etc. It's very versatile. Since you're a first-year intern, you'll be helping everyone. That means running back and forth and collecting data, observing and helping minimal experiments from every division. In your second year, you're allowed to choose which division you want to specialize in, and from that point on, SAINT will help build your resume and potential for the company."

Aysa points to the PROTOTYPES sign on the other side of the corridor. They have the same double doors, same metal detector. "In my department, we take your research and begin focusing on what type of technology we build to benefit the community. If NASA needs help in certain aviation prototypes, certain parts, etc. Since I'm in biotechnology, I take the research for medicine and help push for more advancement in the healthcare fields. This could be MRI machines, equipment, x-rays. You got it, kid?"

I nod, "what about the testing lab?"

"They're on the other side of the building, so we rarely have contact with them. Only our advisors talk to them and exchange prototypes and such. But, they focus on testing our prototypes and making them successful. They would report back to us on what's faulty, what needs better gear, and what's effective. We shuffle ideas back and forth, but you get the gist."

"What about the people who work at the front? Who has their own cubicles and work station?"

"No interns work at the front. Since it doesn't pertain to STEM, those jobs are only available to those who apply. And they help with the paperwork, securing transactions and talking to the government. It's mostly desk work, so they get a nice view."

I nod, processing the information. My head tilts a little to the side, hoping to catch a whiff of the action behind the double doors with a thin slit glass. I knew it was unlikely, considering the glass was translucent and the space was barely large enough to reveal any criminalizing details.

I open my mouth, wanting to ask more but nothing intelligible spills from my lips. Aysa hates stupid questions and even more she hates conservations that fill up the void. She listed that when we first became friends.

"Alright." Aysa claps her hands together, catching my attention. Her eyes seem focused. "That concludes the end of our tour. Let's get back to studying." Aysa does a one-eighty, walking back towards the direction we came from.

"Wait!" I hold out my hand, causing Aysa to halt. She turns to me, her defined brow wrinkles in confusion. My lips part, trying to formulate an argument valid enough for her to take a break from studying. "Let's...go out to eat? It's good...for your health?"

Aysa raises a challenging brow, once again doubting my source. "Said who?"

I offer a sheepish grin, "science?"

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SÁBADO

2:30 PM

Dahlia Gray

"...According to WikiHow," I clear my throat, crossing my legs on the stony retaining wall, "'Studies show that taking a break from studying helps improve your productivity, concentration, energy, and creativity, and rejuvenates your brain so you get more out of your study session.'"

Aysa shakes her head, a smile brewing on her lips. "It does not."

"It does!" I argue, flipping my phone around to show her. "Not only that, if you scroll down, you'll see a resource from some college admission in Chicago. Don't you trust Chicago? Go bulldogs!"

Aysa bursts out laughing, hardly containing herself as she drops her chicken sandwich onto her paper plate and pushes it away from her. I pull my hand back, tilting my head to the side. "What's so funny?"

She catches her breath. "It's Chicago Bears."

"What?" My brows wrinkles, amplifying my confusion growing on my features—before it dawns on me. My expression morphs. "Oh."

The girl in front of me laughs harder, her body shaking with laughter while one hand is pressed against her chest and another carefully collecting her headscarf. Heat rises to my cheeks, burning in embarrassment and I force myself to look away. Where the hell did I get bulldogs from?

I can still hear Aysa laughing even as minutes passed, but the laughter since died down into light chuckles. I bite the inside of my cheeks, wondering if I needed a defense attorney to salvage what's left of my pride. I knew it was going to be a hard debate against Aysa Kamali.

Aysa has since moved on and her laughter no longer carries the air of the atmosphere. She adjusts the pins on her hijab and carefully conceals any exposed hair. While I admit that it was an embarrassing feat to be corrected on the national sport team of Chicago, I am grateful to know that making Aysa laughs is one of the rarities in life and I just so happen to witness it.

The conversation dies at that point, and emptiness fills the gap between us. My chest lunges at the desperation to add something, to keep the atmosphere flowing and our discussion open. My lips parted, wanting to say something when I stop myself.

I'll sit in silence listening to music. I'll remind you to eat your lunch, and maybe you could teach me the ropes along the way.

That was a promise I made to her.

I don't need to fill the void.

"Eat your food," I recall, pointing down to her paper plate filled with fries and her half-eaten chicken sandwich. She nods, picking up her sandwich and takes a bite. Aysa doesn't say anything in reply, and instead, looks away from me and towards the skyline of the city.

I follow her gaze after scooping a forkful of Chinese takeout. Aysa didn't follow along with me when I ordered, but rather, she parted ways and headed to a halal restaurant across the street and met me back at the stony wall where we're sitting.

The city is alive as can be; the skyscrapers tower over—leaving behind a shadowy dome, factories releasing black smoke that suffocates the environment, and busy people bustling up and down the street with a cellphone in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Cars are releasing exhaustion at every traffic turn—taxis are honking whenever traffic slows—and pedestrians lights are flickering a monotonous white to red every two minutes.

I shove my hand inside my pocket, just to make sure I had my inhaler.

Aysa inhales a sharp breath of air before turning back to me, her brown eyes are sharp. "Why did you join SAINT?"

I hesitate, wanting to open my mouth but no words fell through. I just feel myself shutting down—my emotions neutralizing, my interests to interact falls to a complete zero and my back straightens up at the question. Stiff, almost like a board.

She's looking at me, patience wavering over her features, waiting for me to answer—but I can't find it in myself to respond truthfully. A friendship is built on a foundation of trust, and what trust is made when lies are separating the blocks?

A reminder pounces on me like a throbbing headache, and it's reminding me of Hannah and Josie—my childhood friends who I can't seem to open up to. Who won't understand my situation. Who lives perfectly.

I can't help but wonder if this applies to Aysa Kamali, the girl sitting in front of me. Fears bundles at my throat, suffocating any chances to speak. I knew I wouldn't—not now—and I feel myself losing another friend in the midst of it.

I don't say anything, looking down to the Styrofoam box containing my lunch. I don't feel hungry anymore.

"My dad always wanted to become an engineer," Aysa reveals, her voice low but thick with emotions. "He never got the chance to study in Somalia, because of the civil war."

"I joined SAINT when I was seventeen, and me and my family found refuge in America when I was thirteen." She told, like opening a book to her history. She wasn't ashamed of it, but she wasn't exactly boasting with pride either. It was just...a part of her. "I wanted to accomplish something my parents could only dream of. They never got the chance to study, or go to school, or anything. So, I learned about SAINT through a program and immediately joined. I didn't know anything about STEM, but I learned, and I studied, and I tried and...now I'm here."

Her eyes grow distant, like there's more to say. She doesn't look away—something I would've done—and sucks in another sharp breath, turning to me. "Are you ready?"

I know having Aysa opening up to me should've been the invitation I needed to return the favor, but I couldn't stop myself from analyzing the word dad displayed on her tongue with gratitude. It was fondness, loving, pride. I found myself relaying the same message: she won't understand.

Just like I don't understand her.

I don't know what it's like to grow up in a war-torn country, I don't know what it's like growing up with military tanks patrolling the streets and civilians getting killed in the crossfire. I won't understand her situation, I would never.

But that doesn't mean I can't sympathize.

Just like she could do for me.

I clench my hands into fists and releases, repeating these steps until my emotion secures itself on a thin line of trust. My heart racing out of my chest, and the strong urge to reach up and remind myself that I'm surviving. That I'm pumping blood through my veins, transmitting blood cells to my organs—just to keep me alive.

One, two, three.

I deny the opportunity to do so and turn to Aysa, meeting her eyes in my most vulnerable state. To look another human being in the eyes and tell my story, to describe my reasoning.

"I...I want to leave," I answer simply, and immediately feel weak the moment the words collapse into the air. "I...saw that SAINT gives free housing, and a scholarship, and...and...basically, a free ticket to leave this city."

I know I couldn't just say that without giving valid reasons why—why I want to leave so bad, why I took a chance at an internship I barely knew anything about, why I hesitated to open up in the first place.

I drop my gaze to the terrace wall, my nails dragging along the cracks of the stony limestone, creating a low scratch. It follows and follows, like a coursing river, and I realize I'm dragging the silence in order to end the music. Something I didn't want to face.

I don't...I don't want to live here anymore," I reveal, after minutes of total silence, saved for the atmosphere that layers itself as the city. "I just...I don't want to live here anymore, and...I want to leave."

I knew I was repeating the same words like a broken record, but I couldn't find it in myself to say the words I needed to say. To say the words I truly mean. Because the moment they leave my lips and become literal, physical words—it's real.

I would have another person, roaming the Earth, who knows me—more than just surface-level.

Someone to judge me.

To criticize me.

To pity me.

"I know, I know I'll never compare to your situation. I know, you have it worse...with how you escaped your country...and it was a civil war...and you must've seen so much at...a young age," I choke, shaking my head. This is stupid. "It's just...I know people have it worse than me."

"Kid," Aysa places a hand on my shoulder. "Just because people have it worse than you, doesn't mean your trauma isn't valid."

"But I'm not abused," I said quickly, almost defensive. "And it's not trauma, because I don't have any trauma, and it's just—" I suck in a dry breath, releasing a heavy sigh. "It's just...stupid."

Aysa doesn't say anything else, and she doesn't try to comfort me either—something Claudia has done before. She slips her hand back to her side and her eyes watch me with an analytical gaze. It was almost like she's trying to read me, trying to pick apart who I am and put me back together like a solvable puzzle.

Her eyes weren't cold, or guarded or expressed in any type of pity. They weren't warm either, and weren't trying to coddle me like a simple child. Instead, they were true, bright, and patient. She sympathized in a way that didn't make me feel like I held a damper in a presence. It looks...protective.

"Okay." Aysa nods, adjusting her position to one leg dangles off the ledge.

"Okay?"

She turns to me. "Look, kid, I don't know you that well and I have absolutely no right to call you out on anything I don't know enough of. What I can tell you is: it's not stupid—what you're feeling—but I know you can't exactly stop feeling a certain way just because I said so." She pauses, holding eye contact.

"You have my number and I have yours. I don't do the whole ranting, venting type of shit and I'm usually not the one to come to but—call me. Anytime. Anywhere. I'll do my best to be there for you how I can."

I'm stunned, and I don't say anything. Aysa takes that as a sign and returns back to her lunch, taking another bite out of her chicken sandwich.

No tension, no need to fill the void.

Pure comfortability.

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AVA'S NOTES

double update, thanks to my bsf for editing this long ass chapter with me. @ mansi. :)

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