Between the Edges

Chapter 8 - Between The Edges

I hadn't expected to see her here. 

An involuntary chuckle escapes me, earning me a sharp look from mother who was introducing me to an acquaintance, I stifle it with a polite cough.

I couldn't help it. Seeing her here, of all places, was like spotting a fox in the middle of a ballroom.

Until now, I hadn't realized how much I'd missed her, missed our games that is. I felt oxygen flowing back into my lungs. 

A baited breath. 

Finally,

I exhale.

We don't often move in the same circles; it's a rare occurrence to see her here. I wasn't sure if I should go and greet her, or feign ignorance. 

Realistically we don't have any reason to. That's the game we play, isn't it? Pretending we aren't tangled in each other's lives.

She is swarmed by people of all ages. Her visage lacking the usual calculated cruelty.

So this is what she looks like when her fangs are put away.

Her laughter echoes through the stone pillars of the gallery, warm and weightless, yet her eyes remain hollow.

I realized after observing her for over an hour, she didn't belong anywhere.

I suppose it was true to an extent back at the university as well, but there she can hide behind shallow games and vain conversations. Here she keeps moving from one ground to another.

This is apparently the opening gallery for her aunt, suffice to say a lot of her, what seems like a rather close knit family, seems to be here.

If you follow her for a while, she's like a bee, going to clusters of flowers. She cracks jokes and acts silly. But doesn't linger anywhere for too long. 

If I were superstitious, I might have thought this was a demon who had eaten the original Saafia and is now wearing her skin.

I laugh at my own deduction.

I've spent the last two hours like this, eyes following her, tracing her every move.

Could this be considered stalking?

Heh, probably.

That woman,who once came into my bedroom to rearrange my sock drawer. I doubt a bit of observation could meddle our murky boundaries much.

I'm rather surprised she hasn't noticed me yet. Perhaps, much like myself, she's used to our lives not colliding much outside of university.

I walk up to the curator.

"Wonderful collection," I offer casually.

She eyes me with curiosity, a little cold at first.

"An interesting choice to open with watercolors."

She arches a brow.

"Watercolors? How... vulnerable," I murmur, my gaze still trailing Saafia. "It betrays a morbid fascination with fragile things. Not something you usually see headlining a gallery these days."

That catches her off guard. Her posture shifts.

"Featuring traditional water paint isn't really in vogue, yet you're choosing to open the night with them? That feels... deliberate."

She studies me more closely now, the frost thawing. 

Ah, all a professional really needs is an ear that is genuinely curious.

...

Or one apt at pretending to be.

Mid-conversation, I casually drop my university name.

A spark lights in her eyes.

"You go there? My niece studies at that university."

I raise an eyebrow, just the right amount of intrigue in my tone.

"Oh? What a small world."

"Do you know her?"

"What's her name?"

I provide a puzzled look. Faux innocence cloaking me.

She calls her over.

I suppress a laugh.

"Do you know her?"

She calls her over.

The crowd parts, and there she is, almost cinematic. 

The moment stretches.

Our eyes meet.

Finally,

I was expecting her usual guard to come back, or that signature smirk. The player in her to awaken. Her to revert back to the cruel and messed up version I know. One who loves to play with my sanity.

Yet what confronts me isn't something I'm prepared for.

A smile. 

A genuine smile. A disarming smile.

It almost brings me to my knees.

This woman, even when she's not playing, she knows exactly how to play me.

I extend my hand out to her.

"This is my niece Saafia."

She places her hand in mine. I kiss her knuckles.

For a fleeting second, her eyes widen, unmasked.

That reaction brings me a twisted sort of joy.

"Saafia, this is Rinon"

We exchange glances and chuckle. It bubbles between us naturally.

Her aunt, confused.

"Something wrong?"

I answer first, smoothly: "No, no, Miss Layla. Just that your niece is rather famous at our university."

Saafia chimes in, "Hopefully not infamous."

This little—

"What's so funny, let me in on the joke too."

Hand on her hip, a cheerful blonde cuts in on the conversation.

Her new toy?

I raise my eyebrow at her while her aunt and the boy catch up.

She returns a cheeky smirk.

Her and her ever present puppets, I shake my head at the fools getting played by her constantly. 

The mood shifts. The gallery hum grows louder. Conversation trickles into the background. The mundane chatter escalates and I slowly withdraw.

Social gatherings are cursed with every nook and cranny filled with guests.

I need some air, so I excuse myself, and head to the roof.

It's locked.

"Do you think this is some movie, that the roof would be waiting empty till the main leads arrive." Ah, the bite is back.

My lips curve before I know it.

"I had to take a chance."

"You're lucky you know the owner's niece."

She says dangling the keys, spinning them around her finger.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

She rolls her eyes.

"What do we say Ri?"

It's my turn to raise my eyebrows.

"Ri?"

In our two years of knowing each other, she's never called me by a nickname.

"Does it not work for you?" She asks curious, her face right up in mine.

I move back.

"Just surprised."

"So... will you beg?"

"I don't have any reason to."

I bite back, leaning my back against the door.

She pouts, clearly unimpressed. "How dull."

She steps closer. I can smell her signature bergamot perfume. It clings to her like a second skin.

She leans into my ear. "Should I give you a reason?"

To any onlookers, we'd look dangerously compromised.

I pull her closer.

"What if someone sees us?"

I whisper back.

She tugs my shirt. Whispering.

"I don't care."

I swallow.

"What about your family?"

"They're downstairs."

We lock gazes.

"What about your arm ornament?"

"Arm ornament?"

She cracks. Starts laughing.

"Oh God," she wheezes. "Arm ornament!"

She leans on me, trying to catch her breath. The joy twinkles in her eyes.

She finally catches her breath and unlocks the door.

Cool air rushes past us.

The rooftop opens into quiet.

City lights stretch beyond the railing, blurred like watercolor through a thin mist. The muffled beat of the party fades behind the closing door.

It's just us now.

She steps out first, wrapping her shawl tighter around her arms. The wind plays with a loose strand of her hair, lifting it away from her face.

I follow, slower, letting the silence sink in.

"It's always better up here," she murmurs.

"Like the rest of the world forgets to look up."

She walks to the edge and leans against the railing. 

For a moment, she's a still frame, lit by city neon, untouchable.

I stay behind her, watching.

"Bet you bring all your main leads up here."

I joke.

She scoffs.

"Hardly."

I smile, leaning against the railing. "So I'm special then."

For a moment, I think she might challenge me, but instead, she looks down at the city below, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the rooftop. The cool breeze ruffles her hair, and I take in the sight of her in silence.

Then, without warning, she bursts out laughing again. A laugh that seems to come from some deep, forgotten place inside her.

"I can't believe you'd call him..." She almost chokes on her words, her hand clutching her side. "An arm ornament."

"I can't believe you'd call him..."

She almost goes into another laughing fit. "An arm ornament."

"That's Asa."

"Does it matter?"

He won't be around for long anyway.

"Well, he is fun."

I roll my eyes.

"Seems dull."

"He's a good guy."

And? I raise my brow as my silent question.

"I like him."

I choke on a laugh, barely holding it together. 

"You? Like someone? Saafia Bin, actually likes someone?"

"Are you even capable of liking anyone?"

I wince. The last line came out too sharp.

Her eyes still for a moment.

Then it's gone. 

The quiet settles between us. 

A heavy pause.

As if to save us from our uncomfortable silence, a man in formal attire joins us on the roof. He steps forward, holding out a phone.

"Sir has called, Young Miss."

Her face immediately brightens. like a child receiving her Christmas present early.

So innocent.

Who are you? I almost ask aloud.

"Daddy!" 

I blink. Daddy?

Didn't peg her for the type.

She gives me a quizzical look.

Ah, right. Privacy.

We're often so ingrained in each other's world, I forgot here, we're two normal people with regular boundaries.

I raise my hand in a mock surrender. And slowly walk a few steps away.

This seems to assure her.

The man steps aside, and she brings the phone to her ear, her voice softening as the words fall from her lips.

The two talk for a little over 5 minutes. I continue to scroll on my phone. I'm not eavesdropping, at least I don't intend to.

I definitely don't notice the excitement in her voice when her father says he'll be over for a week next month.

Or her disappointment, when he admits to having forgotten to attend her recital practice online.

Or the way her voice falters when she says, "You should go," after a rushed birthday wish.

I definitely don't hear any of that.

She leans on the ledge next to me.

"Oh ho, how pitiful is Saafia. Her dad's miles away." Though her words drip venom, her eyes tell a different story.

I keep my gaze forward. "Don't know what you mean."

I shrug.

"He's alive, isn't he."

"Hm."

She agrees. Her tone, lamenting.

We stay like that, side by side, looking up at the sky. In comfortable silence.

A text buzzes.

Where are you? 

It's from Mom.

I glance at her.

She stretches, exhaling. 

"I need to head back as well." And starts walking towards the door.

"Saafia,"

She pauses.

She turns to look at me over her shoulder.

"Happy Birthday."

She flashes me a smile. One that, as I'm painfully becoming aware, makes it harder to breathe each time.

"My Birthday's tomorrow, you eavesdropping mofo."

"Then happy almost birthday."

She's already turning away, waving the back of her hand over her head. She seems lonely.

Fragile. 

Almost innocent.

Or maybe I'm just imagining it.

I always do.