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An awkward silence settles between them. Suddenly, she isn’t sure if she wants to eat the donut while he is watching.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asks instead, pushing the donut aside gently.

“Sure.” He nods as he lifts the styrofoam cup to his lips.

“That day, why did you ask me not to call you?”

It’s fleeting, but something flashes across his eyes. His jaw faintly ticks again.

She should have just let it be.

“It’s complicated.” He sets the cup down, his finger trailing the rim absentmindedly.

“Complicated how?” She lifts a questioning brow.

His eyes sweep to her, sharp, piercing. A shiver runs down her spine at the intensity in them.

“There are just certain things about me that just aren’t easy to explain, Vivienne.

” Vivienne’s brows furrow, a wave of mystery weaving into the wispy air.

“I needed some time to myself. Make sure I was stable enough before talking to you.”

This isn’t him being dismissive of the truth. This is him trying to be transparent, but doesn’t trust her enough to keep sitting across from him after hearing the whole truth.

“Whatever it is,” she takes in a steady breath, her smile easy as her hands curl around her coffee cup. “I hope one day you’ll be comfortable enough to share it with me. And I hope I will be able to give you my best support.”

She takes a sip of the coffee, and he remains silent. A warmth settles in his eyes and he doesn’t break his gaze away from her. He keeps staring.

And she can see it, the gears turning in his mind. He is trying to unravel her, to decipher her, to plunge deep into the depth of her soul and lay it bare. He wants to be inside her mind, be aware of her thoughts as if they are his own.

He wants to know her.

She sets her cup down, then leans on the table, her arms folded.

“Can I ask another question?”

He simply nods.

“I mean, it might be a sensitive topic so you don’t have to answer, okay?” She studies his expression, making sure she isn’t treading into uncomfortable territory.

“Go on,” he urges.

“Were you born like…this?” The moment the words leave her mouth, she cringes. It sounds so stupid.

“Griscelli Syndrome. Type 3,” he replies after a beat, his expression still passive, giving her nothing to read into. “I was born like this.”

Is he offended? She has no idea. He never looks anything . She can never tell if he is happy, angry, disappointed, betrayed, or sad.

He is like a painting, but most times, even a painting has an expression, right? Why is he so hard to read? Why is his wall so high?

“Does it bother you?” he asks suddenly, leaning forward slightly. “The way I look? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

Her heart clenches. He took it the wrong way. That isn’t what she meant.

“No!” she blurts. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Well,” he exhales softly. “That’s a relief.”

She swallows.

“You…” she starts, hesitating as the next word sits heavy on her tongue.

“What?” His eyes meet hers, curious, interested.

“I think you look like the moon,” she confesses. “I mean, I call you Snow white and all, but in my head, I often compare you to the moon.”

“The moon?” He raises a brow, almost startled. And there is a gentle curve of his lips.

“You’re striking, ethereal even.” She isn’t ashamed.

She isn’t scared that he will realize she has thought about him sometimes.

“To be honest, you don’t look like you belong in this world.

No, I’m not saying it in a negative way.

Like you don’t belong here, here or anything like that,” she rambles on.

And yet he watches, seemingly fascinated, intrigued, perhaps.

“I’m saying you look like you came from a world better than this shithole.” She continues, her cheeks flushed from the heat of his stare. “Maybe a prince from an old fairytale. A ghost from a forgotten legend.”

“A ghost?” he muses, his head slightly tilted, amusement evident in the visible curve of his lips.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s not a bad ghost.” She hides a bashful giggle.

“All I’m trying to say is, don’t let anyone make you feel like a freak, or a weirdo or some strange entity.

You’re a beautiful man, Snow white. And if anyone ever asks you in the future why you look the way you look, tell them you were sculptured from moonlight.

Or wait.” She snaps her finger, her eyes brightening.

“Tell them the moon goddess is your mother.”

A beat passes, and he watches her. No comment, no flicker of emotion. He just watches. And then, gently, more like a whisper, he calls her name.

“Vivienne?”

“Yes?”

“Are you always so full of sentiment?” he asks, curious, slightly in awe.

“What can I say?” She shrugs, a soft smile stretching across her lips. “Life turned me into a poet.”

His fingers flex around his cup. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“For the way you see me.”

A warmth spread across her chest. She lifts her cup, hiding a smile behind a gentle sip of her coffee.

Her eyes finally fall on her long abandoned donut. It’s cold now. Still fluffy, but cold. But it isn’t a problem. She doesn’t regret leaving it for so long. She will eat it like that.

“Can I ask you something too?” he asks softly, and her heart skips, a little caught off-guard.

“Sure.” She nods, lifting a hand to gently wipe off an invisible stain left behind by the donut she just took a bite of.

“Why do you always wear that?” His gaze wanders to her arm warmers, and she isn’t sure if he noticed it, a sudden flinch in her posture.

“I’m hiding something.” She drops her donut again, her fingers tugging at a loose thread on the hem of the arm warmer.

“What are you hiding?”

“A secret.”

A soft exhale echoes from his lips. “Well, I hope one day you’ll trust me enough to keep your secret.”

A distant smile stretched lazily across her lips. He is using her words against her.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, a flash of blade and the splatter of blood pressing against the lenses of her memory. “One day.”