CHAPTER 3

“What did you call me?” he asked, sounding genuinely shocked...ike I’d just confessed a crime.

I frowned, sat straighter, reached for my water bottle, and drank. No answer.

“Hey! Amelìa Torelya, you just called me something, right? What was it? I wanna hear it.”

The guitar on his lap was suddenly forgotten. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face closer to mine, eyes bright like I’d just given him the plot twist of his life.

I stared back.

One, two, three… thirty-three seconds. I counted in my head until he finally blinked away first and sat upright.

“Damn, you’re scary good at staring,” he said. I raised an eyebrow while twisting my hair into a bun.

“"And you talk a lot I see" he laughs at his own sarcasm.

'Yea obviously' I mentally respond.

"Are you aware that you stare a lot?"

'Yea I do'

"Is this your way of telling me to shut up and f**k off?"

'Yes'

"Your looks tells me 'yes'." He laughs.

"Sorry to say this but I won't "

I look at him deadpan. as I sip from my water bottle because my mouth is dry from sleeping, his eyes turns wide, his Iris is dancing with amusement, and again he laughed.

"Ouch" he says acting hurt while fisting his hand on his chest. He grins.

He looks so devilishly- angelic. If that makes sense.

He looks like someone you will forgive no matter how horrible his sin is. To the fact that you'll be the one who'll asked forgiveness.

I rolled my eyes. Nonsense.

"Why do you keep sleeping here by the way?" I look at him like his a dumb creature.

"Oh I see, because it's peaceful here." He says nodding so sure.

"Do you know its not safe to sleep alone, in this kind of places?" Like i dont, "Well you're lucky because most of the time I'll be here" he says in a heroic tone.

'How am I lucky? You just camped at my haven'

"How are you lucky you may ask huh" he's helpless, "I'll be here to protect you while you doze off on your dreams. Nice right, AmelìaTorelya?" Okay now its starting to get me.

"Amelìa" I say

"What?" He looks at me with full attention

As if his excited to the words that will come out in my mouth.

"Amelìa" I repeat. His brows furrowed.

"Ah! You just want to be called Amelìa. Right?" He says enthusiastically.

I saw his right brows slightly went higher than the other. Who wants to be called by its full name anyway?! I rolled my eyes.

"Okay Amelìa" he said as if tasting it. He then proceeded to talk about the most random stuffs i fail to even want to hear.

He didn’t stop. Not for a second. Words tumbled out of him like a waterfall. Random stories about the weirdest things. The way the cafeteria coffee tasted like burnt tires, how his neighbor’s cat apparently had a favorite song, how he could balance a pencil on his nose for a whole minute (and no, he hadn’t proved it yet). How he ran so fast just so he wouldn't be left by the bus because his shower is broken and that made him late. How he was scammed by a beggar who was pretending he was lame, and on and on.

Then, at another peak of his stories he stopped as if he just remembered something.

“Wait. You haven’t even asked my name yet,” he suddenly blurted, as if it had just occurred to him.

“Not interested.” I feel lightheaded from all his yaps.

“Ouch. Still, since you didn’t ask, I'm Ka—”

“Haze.”

“What?”

“Haze,” I repeated.

“Haze? Who, me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh no, no, no. I was this close to telling you my real name, and you—”

“Haze. That’s what I’ll call you.”

“But that’s not my name!” he protested, like a kid denied candy. “My name is—”

“Not interested.”

“Stop cutting me off—”

“Stop talking then.”

“I’ll stop if you just let me say my na—”

“You’re Haze.”

“I’m not! Who’s that even? Don’t tell me that’s your ex you still can’t move on from—”

“You’re Haze. And I’m not interested in your name. Stop. It’s nonsense.”

He gasped. “Wow. That’s the longest sentence you’ve said so far.” He mimed jotting something in an invisible notebook.

“Also, this is not nonsense. You’re calling me by someone else’s name. That’s offensive.”

“It’s you.”

“How am I Haze?”

“Because I say so.”

“Ohhh, ex mo talaga yan, ‘no? You just remembered him when you looked at me.”

“My dog.”

“Akala ko ex, aso lang pala—wait, what?! You’re naming me after your dog? Ang sama mo.”

“Did I ever say I’m nice?”

“No. You’re Amelìa.” He laughed at his own joke, which made me more tired than amused.

He's hopeless. Hays.

And then he kept talking. About names. About dogs. About why Haze was a bad nickname. About how he deserved something cooler. About how I should, at the very least, be grateful he was “protecting” me.

He keeps on bubbling words, while I'm here trying to sleep. I spilled a lot of words I feel like I'm draining, I need to recharge. He talks too much and he has this weird ability that can make me talk, too.