Copyright © 2013 by roastedpiglet (of Wattpad)

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c h a p t e r  s e v e n t e e n

[  h o w  t o  c u t  l o o s e  e n d s  ]

          It was three in the morning, and instead of sleeping in the room Miles offered me—the room that was going to be renovated in about time—to stay for the night, I've successfully rummaged through the desk drawers and materialized a pad of paper (with the Royal Hotel logo on every sheet) and a thick pencil (with an embedded Royal Hotel text in silver).

I was writing again.

Granted, I'd been writing like this, pencil and paper, for as long as I could remember, until I've heard of a competition, decided I had a fair chance of winning, and used my rent money to buy a laptop. That was pure impulse on my part, even now, and I was beginning to regret prioritizing a laptop and my ardent (sometimes superfluous, I admit) passion in writing over safeguarding my rent money.

I've been regretting it bad, especially with the events that followed after Mr. Kendrick kicking me out. Sure, I experienced a job as a waitress, I managed to flick a bug to a website of one of the most imperious businesses ever and earned a penthouse for it, and I became a date of fallacy in a world very different from mine, adding firsthand experience just in case I wanted my characters to feel the same.

But beside this list of good things was a longer list of their opposite. All the bad things.

I don't need to list them, because I'm certain they still felt fresh and raw to me, whereas the good things I've managed to garner over this hellish experience? I was beginning to forget.

I shook my head, turning the pencil over and erasing the last few fragments that didn't sound as fluent as the rest.

She was feeling it again—the slamming of her heart against her ribcage, the pumping of her blood in her ears. It was there again, the all-too-well known fear of every creature who'd had the strength to love in a loveless world—pain.

I smiled sadly at the new paragraph—because, then and there, I just finished writing its chapter.

In the faint light of the lampshade and the cool breeze of the AC, I felt peaceful and jovial, the feeling I've been missing, the kind of atmosphere I haven't felt in a long time. The only thing missing was the kind of beverage that aided me in writing—milk. The same brand of milk that I drank every morning to spearhead me into another one of those frustrating writing moments.

The sudden knock on my door scared me boneless.

"Are you awake, Mia?"

That was a familiar voice. That was Miles at the door. At three. In the morning.

Was he nocturnal?

"I'm entering."

Before I could spill out a response, the door creaked softly open, and in the doorway, true to word, was Miles. He looked like he needed sleep—badly. His hair was all over the place, his forehead was showing all the wrinkles in the universe (not really), and he looked pale. He'd clearly been busy, because in his hands, there was a tray. And on the tray were two glasses of milk, a bowl of garlic bread, and a dish of lasagna.

"Oh, good, you're awake," he said, smiling down at me. I immediately snatched the pad of paper and placed it inside the desk drawer and hoisted myself up, just as he laid the tray down on the now vacant desk, the lampshade still on. "I brought you food. I realize you haven't eaten dinner. The moment I offered you the room last night, you went to bed and there was no force in the universe that could wake you up."

He really was Challuring. He was charming, and alluring, and this time, I wasn't talking about his looks. He was charming and alluring inside. "Thank you," I breathed out, smiling back. "You didn't have to."

"You and I both know that's a lie," he said. My stomach growled, much to my mortification, coloring my cheeks the slightest hint of pink. Miles lifted his eyebrows. "Your stomach agrees to my testament."

"Fine," I deadpanned. "You're right, I'm wrong."

He chuckled, shaking his head and walking over to the one-man bed on the right side of the room, he watched me, saying, "Now that we've established that, go dig in."

I paused, eyeing him with a small amount of amusement. "I'm not a dog."

"And you're not busog," he countered.

My eyebrows furrowed at the unfamiliar term. "Boo-soug?"

"Busog," he clarified. "The stress is in the second syllable. A foreign slang. They use it a lot in the Philippines—it's in Asia—to indicate whether or not you're satisfied with your meal or you feel like your stomach's gonna explode."

Taking the information in and inwardly adding the word to my vocabulary, the other information registered in my brain. "You're Filipino?"

A soft chuckle graced his lips. "Just half. I'm not incredibly fluent in the language, but my friend is. She speaks Filipino a lot." He slowly added a smile. "It rubs off on me."

"She," I murmured under my breath.

I looked up from my food, and stared at Miles. He was sat on the foot of the bed, looking at his dangling feet while . . . smiling. Smiling, like he remembered a jovial memory. Smiling, like he'd tucked himself into his own world.

It spread fast. So fast, in fact, that I hadn't even noticed he caught me smiling, to which his own smile was suspended. "You're smiling," he stated, staring at me.

I shook my head, even though ironically, my smile only grew wider.

"You're prettier when you smile."

I think I heard butterfly wings flutter right beside my ear, at that moment. "Sure."

A laugh erupted from his lips. "You're welcome," he said. There was a slight pause, like he weighed something, before saying something again. "I bet you'll be prettiest when you've eaten enough, though. So go eat, seriously."

And then I did, and we then shared the bowl of delicious garlic bread I found out he himself formulated the recipe for, and I felt euphoric, and that's why it was a little late when I realized there were two glasses of milk because he wanted to share this meal with me for another reason completely.

He wanted us to talk.

"So," he started, once we finished with our meal, setting the tray and smiled at how lax our positions were—we were both in an Indian sit on the carpeted floor, face-to-face as if we were about to engage in a Truth or Dear sequence—before prevailing with, "what are your plans now?"

"My plans?" I repeated, even if I knew exactly what he was referring to.

And he was referring to what I plan to do later, when I (as I've decided) return to the penthouse to gather my things and leave for good.

Come to think of it, I could actually claim a story, even call Last Chance Media for it, and put stain in Laurel-Tech's name. After all, Finn did give me his word that I'll have his penthouse for my abode in two months—it was our deal. Yet he took it from me after just a single week and bam—I'm left homeless, again. Albeit he did say if I reached 30 decibels he'd take it back.

There are so many things I could do, and even though I knew in the end I wouldn't be the one with the happy ending, because, let's face it, after all I was the weak one here versus a universal conglomerate, the point is it would still plant a few seeds of doubt. No matter who the person was, it would still plant doubt, regardless of how faint or strong that doubt is.

Doubt is still doubt.

I knew for a fact that Finn was a perfectionist; anybody could attest to it. And in the few days I'd known him, I'd be the first to attest that he was in fact a perfectionist. And even if his company would still be in good foundation after the noise I would be creating had I went down that road, it wouldn't be as perfect any more as it was before.

And by the way, laying out the facts, if my bug had already made their number one investor want to pull back his investments if Laurel-Tech wasn't able to fix their bug, then what more if I had actually made myself known to the public?

Mess. Doubt. Ruins.

Possibly for the both of us, but on a clearly higher level, me. Since in the end, after the clock bell rings, I was still the broke one.

Fudge.

In front of me, someone cleared his throat. "Hey."

I looked up at Miles, and realized I'd submerged myself in monologue mode. Abashed at how precipitously I could divert from this world to my own thoughts, I shook my head, and gave a smile. "Sorry."

"You know, sometimes I wonder if you really are insane," he said, eyeing me warily. "It makes me worry what'll happen to you once I say goodbye to you, once all this is over."

"I know," I could only agree. Because I also knew that whereas his purpose in aiding me, in caring for me, was as genuine as a gentleman's intentions, in the end we were still strangers to each other.

We were the perfect example of friends in the time being, due to time itself.

It was going to end soon.

"But while we're still in this fairytale-like scene," he said, his voice hinting at something, "I could still do something for you."

My eyebrows arched. "What?"

A slow smile caught on his lips. "Let me be charming, this one last time."

۩ ۩ ۩

If I'd known Miles' definition of 'charming' was making his personal driver drive me to Little Italy Penthouse, then I would've immediately disagreed, seeing as I had money I'd borrowed (which was inside my pocket, and in my hands the pad of paper and pencil to which Miles teased me in the foyer of the hotel where he said his goodbye and wished me well) but he insisted, and insisted, and insisted.

Apparently, his insistence outshined my own. Really, that Challuring man.

Now, we were driving in the urban suburb Little Manhattan, and before I could say bonanza! for no reason at all, the SUV lurched to a stop, and out the window, I could see the familiar edges and perfectness of Little Italy Penthouse.

I missed it. I really did.

When I got out of the SUV, I sent Manny my personal regards and sincere gratitude, and watched him drive down the road until even a silhouette of it, I could no longer seize.

That's when I turned around, looked for the pot beside the porch, and set it aside.

Because there, on the rough patch of pavement the pot was before sat, was where I hid the key of the penthouse. I grabbed it instantly, inserted it in the doorknob, and turned it around, only for me to realize that, to my true utter horror, the door was already open.

Open. Meaning, unlocked. Without a shadow of permissible doubt.

Shocks.

Still, I opened it wider, and scanned the room. It looked the same, and oddly, even more organized than before. But there were no signs of life.

But that's when I heard it. The faint sound of a television.

Someone else was inside.

I panicked, and looked at the key in my hand. Did this . . . mystery person find out where I'd hidden the key and got inside?

What? No. No, Mia, this is more than a subdivision. Remember how peaceful this place is?

Meaning if that mystery guy wasn't a robber, then it could only mean it was either of the two: Finn, or Alex.

I was crossing my fingers it was the latter.

Please, Fate.

I'll buy you ice cream.

Mustering all the courage in my body system (please, appear), I took in a breath and made my way inside.

And there, seeing as I couldn't lift my feet softly even if I sold my body parts to animals (what), I found out that there was someone, sat rather lavishly on the living room sofa, remote control in hand, who was watching some business ad. Actually, a particular business ad, showcasing a panel of IT people.

Mystery person turned around at the sound of my feet, and it struck me with stark nausea how I, indeed, knew this person in person.

And all it took was one word.

My name.

"Mia."

۩ — ۩ — ۩

Dedication goes to Rin (@Melancholia), who's supported this story for so long now. This chapter is for you. Thank you.

To all the Challuring bandwagonners, you're perf, I love you. There's more in store for him; he'll appear again. ;) (Yes, 'shipper' is not the term for this story. It's 'bandwagonner' awyeah)

And to you, who are reading this right now, you're fabulous, brilliant, and golden. Thank you.

See you again soon?

Cookies x muffins x cupcakes

Myka