He Thinks I'm An Angel?

She stirred at dawn, light filtering through the tarp. Mike was already awake, perched on a fallen log nearby, camera in hand. When her eyes fluttered open, she caught him aiming the lens her way—still captivated by her sleeping form. She sat up with a jolt, hair swishing around her, and glared. He quickly lowered the camera, cheeks flushing.

"Sorry," he said again, voice husky from disuse. "You… so… amazing." He gestured helplessly at her entire being. She's like a goddess, he must be thinking.

Fanta fixed him with a calm stare, not deigning to respond in a language he presumed she didn't understand. Instead, she gingerly tested her ankle. The ache had diminished, as it often did when her skin healed so unnaturally fast. She forced a slight limp to mask how quickly she was recovering—no need to alarm him further.

He moved to her side, pressing a palm lightly to her shoulder. The contact made her tense; no man in Ogamba ever touched her except in violence. But he was gentle, checking if she was okay. She exhaled slowly and nodded.

He rummaged for more rations. She accepted them, nibbling quietly, all while he stared at her with that same unbreakable fascination. The forest around them awakened—birds calling, leaves rustling in a gentle breeze—but Mike seemed only to notice Fanta. He reached to brush a stray leaf from her purple braids, inhaling her fruity aroma again. She resisted the urge to yank away, reminding herself that he meant no harm—he was merely enchanted.

A sudden thought tickled her mind: What if I speak now? Let him know I'm not some ignorant local. But she wasn't ready. She needed time to weigh his intentions. For now, she'd remain an enigma, a silent angelic figure with otherworldly eyes. His stammering attempts at conversation entertained her, though she kept her face serene.

They packed up the makeshift camp. Mike offered his arm again, helping Fanta walk. Each time she wobbled, he was there, camera dangling from his neck, eyes flicking back to her hair, her eyes, her honey-hued skin. He'd occasionally stop, as if about to photograph her again, but she'd shake her head. He honored her wishes, albeit reluctantly, lowering the camera with a resigned sigh.

They set off through the forest, side by side. The path ahead was uncertain, but neither returned to Ogamba's direction. Fanta's mind churned with possibilities: Could I travel with him, learn more about the world beyond? Would he eventually lead me to safety? Or exploit me for my looks?

She recalled her old books: foreigners sometimes took advantage of local wonders for personal gain. But Mike's eyes held no malice—only awe, confusion, and a measure of kindness.

The sun rose, casting dappled shadows along the undergrowth. Fanta inhaled the forest's fragrance, mingling with her own sweet, fruit-berry scent. Mike walked slowly, carefully, occasionally pausing to scribble notes or snap a photo of an interesting tree. Yet she felt his gaze always returning to her, like a magnet.

At one point, she caught him murmuring quietly in English: "She's… unbelievable. Her eyes… hair… scent… never seen anything like it." She pretended not to understand, but a faint smile quirked her lips.

They reached a small clearing. Mike gestured around, questioning if they should continue or rest. Fanta gave a tiny shrug, as if unsure. He exhaled, scanning the area. Birds fluttered overhead. In that moment of stillness, he turned to her again, eyes shining.

"You… angel?" he asked, half jest, half genuine wonder.

Her cheeks grew warm, but she looked away. "No… ghost," she muttered in Ogamba's dialect, ironically echoing her village's insult. He frowned, clearly not comprehending.

She sighed, stepping forward, leaving him behind for a moment. He scrambled after her, nearly tripping as he balanced the camera, the lantern, and the bag. She could almost laugh, if not for the lingering ache in her body.

Thus their journey continued, two strangers bound by circumstance: the tall, honey-skinned girl with impossible beauty and purple braids, and the stuttering photographer from another world, enthralled by her presence to the point of near-obsession.

Nightmares of Ogamba haunted her, but each time she remembered Handuza's cruel laughter, she reminded herself that she was free. For now, that was enough.

They followed the forest path into the unknown, Mike stealing glances with unabashed awe, Fanta hiding her fluency behind nods and shrugs. The air crackled with unspoken tension, their roles reversed: the outcast angel leading a starstruck wanderer.

And somewhere, in the thickness of the trees, destiny stirred, weaving a story neither had anticipated.