"I found a way to see in the dark. Close your eyes." – J.R. Rim, Better to be able to love than to be loveable

DEDICATION: the-water-city for ze votes, ze comments, and ze amazing stuff in between!

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Tristan's POV

"Um, well, I gotta go! New customer! Bye!" Tristan blurted into the telephone.

He was breathing was more quickly than usual, fist clenched around the phone so tightly that his knuckles were now a pale, ghostly white. Exhaling slowly, he released his grip and set the phone down with a small 'click!', then proceeding to flop down in his chair with the enthusiasm of a dead fish.

Damn, what was he supposed to do now?

It wasn't like he wanted to make up completely unbelievable excuses and ditch a phone conversation with a girl, but it just kind of happened, you know? Like humans instincts and stuff. Fight or flight. And Tristan knew from experience that he was not a fighter.

Besides, it wasn't his fault, right? What was he meant to do when a random girl dumped all her life problems on him in one phone call? It was like standing there and letting bullets hit you one-by-one in a fucked up World War.

Ouch.

Very much ouch.

Like I'm-getting-the-hell-out-of-here-before-I-die-because-I'm-being-shot-right-fucking-now-oh-my-God ouch.

Anyway, Tristan hadn't even had any experience with girls! Sure, he could probably perform eye surgery and rip eyes out of skulls with ease, but girls? Nope, those creatures were complicated as hell, to say the least. Not that dudes weren't complicated, but females usually carried a lot more emotional trauma and bottled up feelings than guys.

The next few seconds passed like a montage. The seconds didn't want to be comprehended, and they were incomprehensible anyway. One second he was collapsed in his cushy chair, the next he was wiping the glass on the various optometrist-related instruments with a damp cloth, even though fingerprints on glass were the least of his problems.

How did one girl suddenly manage to cause him so much trouble? Wait, how did Tristan even know Retina was a girl? Maybe she was a broke babysitter in her thirties. Or maybe a bald Asian monk. Or even a Polish spy with intent to kill him on sight! Was that the reason why they hadn't met yet? Was she trying to murder him?

Okay, inner Tristan. Shut the hell up.

Catching his grimace in the reflection of the glass, he quickly attempted to force his rather full lips into somewhat of a grin. It worked for a second, but he looked more like an animatronic from Five Night's At Freddy's than a teen trying to genuinely look happy. Sighing, he let his smile drop back into its regular straight face.

Were there instruction manuals somewhere out there? Like, how-to-smile-without-looking-like-a-fucked-up-scarecrow-wielding-a-chainsaw? Or maybe even how-to-talk-to-girls-without-hanging-up-on-them-and-making-them-want-to-hang-you?

Because that would be pretty damn useful right about now.

Just as Tristan flopped back down onto his cushy chair and started contemplating the benefits of pointless instruction manuals, he heard the reverberating chime of the doorbell, accompanied with a slightly familiar voice. "Knock knock? Anyone home right now?"

"Sorry, we're not open," Tristan said automatically, failing to glance up and actually see who was at the door. Instead, he was picking at a chocolate fudge cookie with intent to... well, kill? Disembowel? It wasn't like cookies even had heads. Or brains. Or were living creatures. What had that cookie ever done to him?

Yep, he just completely lost his appetite.

"Dude, what happened to 'you can come by any time you like?' I can't do that if you guys aren't even open!" the person exclaimed. This time, Tristan glanced up with a jolt of shock, realising who had actually walked through the door.

He raised an eyebrow at the brown-haired (what girls would call) bombshell standing in front of him. It wasn't like he had expected him to be an Asian monk, but the guy looked a lot more, well, his age than anything else. Nineteen, twenty years old, maybe? Sparkling brown eyes, full of energy. Unruly dark hair, as though he had forgotten the existence of a comb.

"Uh, how long are you going to keep checking me out? I can't say that I don't like it, and I can't say that you have a reason not to, but I'm feeling uncomfortable here..."

The guy's voice broke Tristan's thoughts and helped him come to the realisation that he was checking his phone buddy 2.0 out without any subtlety. His face flushed slightly pink and he hastily stood up, exclaiming, "I wasn't checking you out! I was actually looking at the potted plant behind you, 'cause, uh... it needs to be watered?"

Fletcher's expression was very disbelieving. "Sure, bro. Whatever you say. If you've got a thing for me, just tell me, okay? I have that kind of effect on people."

"I do not have a-" Tristan stopped in the middle of his sentence, realising that it was no use to argue. "Anyway, weren't you all like, 'I'm blind! Fix my eyes, Tristan! Fix them! Help me! And when I have time, I'll bow down to you and say that you're awesome!"

Fletcher looked offended. "My voice does not sound like a dying chinchilla!"

"Your face looks like a dying chinchilla," Tristan retorted before he could slap himself with a rubber glove. Why did he just insult a guy who he hadn't even met until this very moment? Especially a guy who could potentially deprive him of delicious ice cream?

God, Tristan was not being a very smart early high school graduate today.

Thankfully, Fletcher just laughed. "You sound like my girlfriend, Tristy! She'd love to meet you, you're pretty much the male version of her, except more reclusive and a lot less bitchy." His carefree expression suddenly melted into one of sheer terror. "But don't tell her that, she'd castrate me! Can you believe it? Such a drama queen!"

"Yes, that's very hard to believe," Tristan replied sarcastically, setting up the equipment in the optometrist room. Adjusting magnification, wiping glass clean, boring stuff like that. "Why would she ever do that, after trying to stab you with a butter knife after you hit her in the head with a dart? I just can't comprehend the thought!"

Tristan's sarcasm was a complete waste on Fletcher. "I know, right? I just don't get why she's so violent! I mean, all I did was nearly poke her eye out with a dart and almost made her permanently blind! Why would she even hold a grudge over a tiny thing like that?"

"Dude," Tristan said dubiously. "Are you usually this much of a dick?"

"Only on Tuesdays and the occasional Sunday," Fletcher chuckled, before checking his phone. "Oh, would you look at that? It's Tuesday!"

Tristan's sigh didn't escape his mouth until he had went to another room to grab some pigmented eye drops. It wasn't like Fletcher was bad company or anything, but he was definitely going to be a hell of a handful. Although no one was as bad as Retina, that girl could bitch her way out of anything and everything she wished!

What was she doing right now? Maybe cheer practice, or dance, stumbling around like a blind wombat. Speaking of that, he still hadn't managed to cure her eyes yet. Honestly, he was trying to put that event off as long as possible, because... well... uh...

Huh. There wasn't even a reason.

Wow, Tristan would not be an asset on the debate team, that's for sure.

But in his inner subconsciousness, the part of his mind that he wanted to keep buried like a treasure chest for as long as possible, thought differently. The inner voice came out at the best of times, the worst of times. It was his best companion, his worst enemy.

Sometimes, it was like a loyal dog, running after a thrown ball. Sometimes, it was just one of those fricking annoying fleas that made you itch yourself like that was the only way to keep you alive. Bah, either way, Tristan had always hated fleas.

Maybe you just want to keep Retina talking to you, his brain offered its unwanted opinion. You know, in those sappy love stories where the dude is all like 'don't leave me!' and the girl is all like, 'I have to!' in the most dramatic voice possible. Or is it the other way around? Speaking of that, I just got really hooked on this one Wattpad story like that. Betcha you're totally whipped like the main character is...

Shut up, Tristan chided himself.

He could imagine his inner consciousness holding its hands up in surrender and waving a white flag. Okay boss, shutting up! But if you fuck this all up, you can't blame me.

I'm not going to fuck this all up!

You're going to fuck this all up.

I'm not!

I'm going to pop some popcorn and watch you fuck up.

I'm not going to- wait, did you say popcorn?

Yeah, so what?

Can I have so-

Heck no! Do movies consume your popcorn while you're watching them?

Well, no, but-

But nothing. You're the movie, I'm the audience. Therefore, I get the popcorn.

As you could see, Tristan's inner self was a total dick. Distracting himself from thoughts of delicious popcorn and his rather bitchy phone girl friend, he continued adjusting the magnification of the lenses. "Fletcher, can you sit in that chair opposite me?"

"Are you planning to jolt me with thousands of volts of electricity? Because my girlfriend probably wouldn't be very happy about that either," Fletcher said jokingly.

Tristan's head poked up from behind the lens. "Is your girlfriend ever actually happy?"

"Er, I don't really know," Fletcher mumbled, before his expression lit up like a lightbulb. "Actually, I remember her saying something about needing a kiss from me and a huge bowl of ice cream every morning to function!"

"That's great," Tristan said absentmindedly, before peering into the lens. "Now, can you look into the lens with your right eye?"

"Like this?" Fletcher asked, leaning forward.

The next thing Tristan knew, he was staring at the image of a zoomed up eyeball, making him flinch slightly in his seat. Even though he had done these eye tests on more than one occasion, they couldn't help but make him squirm every time. Well, who actually enjoyed looking at bulbous eyeballs? Not him, that's for sure.

"Yeah, just like that," Tristan confirmed, after getting over his initial shock. "Keep your eye trained on the house in the distance. Eye on the house. Like your girlfriend's in there and she's aiming at the apple in front of your eye with her bow and arrow. You're the target. Don't blink or look anywhere else unless you want to see your head shot off."

"That's some very detailed imagery," Fletcher murmured, though he kept his eye movement to a minimum. "I've done this before. I wear glasses. I think my eyesight's gotten worse, and I only moved to Westerden a few years ago, way after I first got glasses."

Tristan's reply was very meaningful. "Oh."

As he worked, he couldn't help but think of Retina sitting opposite him instead of Fletcher. What would she have looked like, what would she had said? It was like playing a game of Guess Who, without the who part and only the guessing. She hadn't revealed anything to him about her physical features, but he could clearly picture her as a blonde.

Not blonde, because of the stupid dumb blond stereotype that wasn't even true. Not blonde, because of sexual appeal or whatever. No. Blonde, because her intelligence, along with her liveliness and cute naïvety, which was what fit her personality perfectly.

Eye colour? As a wild guess, he'd say blue. Again, not because of the dumb blonde-and-blue stereotype, but because blue eyes were fresh, full of joy. And he wasn't just saying that because he had blue eyes. If his eyes were the dull transparency of falling raindrops, then Retina's eyes were the blue moon; rarely seen, mesmerising, beautiful, fleeting, occasional.

Damn, he's a poet and he knows it!

"How's your girlfriend?" Fletcher's voice broke him out of his thoughts; he hadn't realised that by this time, he had already take photographs of both of Fletcher's eyes and herded him to another room to do some more tests.

Tristan flinched at the word. "Girlfriend?" The eye drop bottle he was holding shuddered in his hand, as though it was taking a deep breath. The result of his clumsiness caused the eye drop to splash somewhere that was obviously not Fletcher's eye.

Fletcher gently wiped the drop of moisture off his slightly tan cheek with his hand. "Tristan, I think you missed. Like, really badly. Last time I checked, my cheek was not my eye."

"Sorry," Tristan apologised. "Got distracted."

"At the word 'girlfriend', I noticed." Fletcher's eyebrows raised in unison. "What's up with you and your phone girlfriend? Are you guys doing alright?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Whatever you say, Optometristan. Get it? Optometristan?" Fletcher laughed. "I came up with it while you were herding me around like a zombie! I'm so punny, aren't I?"

Tristan stiffened at the joke, but then relaxed slightly. "Hilarious, dude. Why don't I just play a laugh track in the background to show my utter amusement?"

"Jeez, who shoved the sushi up your ass today?" Fletcher snickered. Nothing seemed to faze the guy, which annoyed the heck out of him but was also a trait that he admired. After Tristan's unconvincing half-snort and half-laugh, Fletcher's expression turned serious for the first time today. "Seriously, how's your phone buddy?"

"She's..." Tristan considered fibbing, but decided not to after a moment. "...Spilling out her life story and every problem that she has, like I'm her therapist. I just don't know how to deal with that kind of stuff! Do I comfort her? Do I send her teddy bears? Offer free eye tests? Or should I-"

"I think that you should give her a chance." Fletcher cut off his rambling.

Tristan paused. "What?"

Fletcher's shrugged, before getting up from his chair and grabbing the most ridiculous pair of glasses nearby, trying them on. "How do I look?"

"Fabulous," Tristan said emotionlessly. "What do you mean, give her a chance?"

"Dude, you should just listen to her problems. Nah, don't just listen to them, relate. I never thought I could relate to Emily, we were so damn different. But when you really give her a chance, you find out that the puzzle pieces you guys are, fit together more perfectly than you would think."

"It's not that easy..."

Fletcher's words were wise, though it was hard to take him seriously when he was wearing a pair of Hannah Montana themed glasses. "How do I look now?"

"Stupendously snazzy, Fletcher. You look great," Tristan replied, trying to sound as though the gears in his brain weren't malfunctioning from Fletcher's little motivational speech. "Well, I'll give her a chance. She deserves that from me."

"Good call. Whatcha gonna say?" Fletcher's eyebrows rose once again from beneath the overly large sunglasses he was now sporting.

Tristan's face was a mask of calm, though he was feeling exceptionally panicky inside. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get there."

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Faith's POV

"Sorry Retina, Bob is starting to get impatient!" Tristan's voice emanated out of the speaker of her cell phone. Faith shook her head, golden blonde curls swishing from side to side. What the heck was wrong with this boy? Was he high, or on drugs, or- "See ya!"

Faith's eyes widened as she realised what Tristan was about to do. "Don't you dare hang up on-"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Dude! What the heck, Peanut?!" Faith shouted in a disbelieving tone, though she already knew that it was no use trying to contact him. Shouting a garbled "arghh!" to no one in particular, she slammed her cell phone face down onto her mahogany desk.

And yes, she had renewed her cell phone plan by now.

It wasn't like Faith had done anything wrong, right? All she had done was tell Tristan how much- God, how much he meant to her. It had taken a lot of courage and overcoming of pride for her to say those words, and all Tristan could repay her with was a lame excuse about a 'patient' named Bob?!

It wasn't like she even wanted to be friends with Tristan in the first place, anyway! All she had ever wanted him to do was to fix her darn blurry eyes and then... then, she would leave him alone for the rest of eternity, or for however long he wished. It was also what Faith wished too. The less time she spent being converted into a nerd, the better.

So why did the thought of not talking to Tristan make her squirm in her seat like a weird blonde worm?

Every time she heard his freaking soothing voice and opposed his calming attitude, all she felt was a strange jerking sensation in her heart. It wasn't a good feeling, but it wasn't bad. It was just there, existing whenever Tristan picked up the phone and spoke the words that were quickly becoming extremely endearing.

Westerden Optometrist, what are your symptoms?

Well, Mr Peanut, I think my symptoms include inevitable future heartbreak and conversion back into my old, nerdy self, Faith thought with annoyance. I can also pinpoint the cause, Tristan whatever-the-hell-your-surname-is. Can you guess who? It's you, you stupid adorable butthole! Who could have predicted that?

Every time she picked up her cell phone, it had somehow become a natural instinct for her (extremely blurry; no thanks to Tristan) eyes to dart right to his number, cleverly labelled Optometristan. She now had an urge to change the contact name to asshole-who-hangs-up-on-girls-when-they-admit-their-feelings.

It would sure suit him a lot better.

Puffing a breath out of the corner of her mouth, she pushed herself up off her chair in one graceful movement, picking up her phone in its crystallised phone case. Taking one glance back at the doodles she had drawn in her notebook, most of which depicted who she imagined as Tristan- except with his hair on fire, she made her way out of her vast bedroom and into her comparatively larger kitchen.

Everything in the kitchen, or what Faith liked to call the-burden-of-her-existence, was completely spick and span, just the way she liked it. Oil splatters were absent on the immaculate porcelain-white drawers. The walls were lined with pearly mosaic tiles, pale grey grout set in place without a speck out of place.

The stovetop was equally pristine, wiped and scrubbed until the black surface gleamed as though it had never been used before. The metallic silver sink shone within an inch of its life, cute soaps neatly lined in little jars on the small windowsill in front of the sink. Right next to those, now there was the real beauty:

The fridge.

The very shiny, polished fridge with delicious things inside.

So basically just like everything in the house, so that wasn't really much of a shock. Faith gripped the fridge door handle and pulled it open, to be met by the dim luminescence of fruits, vegetables, and various raw produce.

Now, this was the reason why the fridge was Faith's favourite part of the kitchen; the pantry was tempting enough, with its cookies and whatnot. But the fridge had healthy produce. Produce that would keep Faith nice and slim for cheer and dance practice. But as she reached for a small container of raspberries, she froze in her tracks.

Are you eating less and 'more healthy' because of health reasons and to live a longer life, or are you eating less just to stay in cheerleading?

"It... may still be the latter," Faith guilty murmured out loud.

She could perfectly imagine Tristan; or whatever he looked like, staring at her with a disappointed expression. Not angry in the slightest; just full of utter disappointment, which was much worse. Don't starve yourself to fulfil other people's expectations. You're better than that.

"So you could comfort me then, but you can't comfort me now?" she said angrily to no one in particular, since she was home alone. Her voice rang out into the deafening silence. "What kind of stupid hypocrite are you, Peanut? Jeez, why couldn't you just be one of those guys who showered me with teddy bears and gave me free optometrist appointments?"

But apparently imagination Tristan didn't answer to real life Faith, because the irritating voice in her mind remained silent, just when she didn't want it to. Waiting a few more moments, she could still imagine Tristan's disapproving McGonagall-like glare, like 'if you don't eat some damn junk, I'm going to shove ice cream down your throat!'

Biting her lip from frustration, she slammed the fridge door shut. What was it with her and abusing inanimate objects today? She blamed it all on Tristan. If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't have almost smashed her phone and murdered her source of healthy food! Gosh darn stupid idiotic optometrist know-it-alls who sucked at talking to girls.

Okay, Tristan.

You win, just this once.

Unlocking her iPhone, she tapped the 'Phone' app and dialled a number that she had saved after Tristan reprimanded her about her eating habits. He was her mother or something! And she was getting better! It was just, well, tiny setbacks equalled huge mistakes to her, and Faith had always hated making mistakes.

Ring.

How much was Faith willing to bet that by the third ring, she would chicken out of the idea and hang up before anyone could actually pick up the phone? Not much, probably, since that idea was becoming more and more plausible as the seconds passed.

Ring.

It was also rather strange, since it wasn't like her to chicken out of stuff. She loved doing stuff! Well, not since she had met stupid Tristan the know-it-all smarty peanut optometrist, who had wormed his way blindly into her life and made her eyesight even more blurry- both figuratively and literally, since he still hadn't actually cured her warped eyesight yet.

Ring.

Well, she guessed she was going to be making some employees rather annoyed. Just as her finger hovered above the crimson 'end call' button, the call connected. "Erm, uh, hello? ERIN! What am I meant to be saying right now?! No, I haven't listened to Fletcher doing his job, I've been too busy eating the damn ice cream!"

"Uhh... hello?" Faith asked, utterly confused.

The voice suddenly went silent; Faith thought that whoever was on the other side of the line had hung up, until the feminine-sounding voice spoke up again. "Urghh, sorry about that. I think I'm meant to be saying something along the lines of, 'this is Waffle Cones. How may I help you?' Is that right? I'm sorry if I'm wrong."

"Sure..." Faith drew out the word out slowly, unsure of what exactly was happening.

Weren't people who worked at stores usually aware of what they were meant to do? Wasn't that like, their job? Because whoever was on the other side of the line, apparently sucked at the whole 'being good at their job' thing.

"Anyway, what kind of ice cream would you like?" The girl asked questioningly.

"Uhh, something with minimal calories?" Faith asked hopefully, glancing down at her glistening stovetop for something to do. "Also, minimal fat, minimal sugar, minimal everything, preferably. What's something that you guys have that fits that description?"

The girl was silent for a moment, before deadpanning, "water."

Faith paused. "Oh, touché. I really need to stop doing that, don't I?"

"I don't see why you would call an ice cream shop to ask for diet-worthy foods, just saying." Her voice sounded rather amused now. "Because this store's got some of the most calorie jam-packed, sugary sweet stuff you will ever eat. Delicious, ain't it?"

Faith couldn't help but flinch at every word she spoke, though maintained her composure. "Well, can I just have whatever you recommend, then? Chef's special, or whatever. Wait, do ice cream stories even have chefs? Ice cream makers' special, then."

"That would be my boyfriend and his friends," the girl replied nonchalantly, though Faith could practically feel her radiating amusement from the other side of the call. "I have absolutely no idea what the chef's special is, to be honest. Sorry to burst your bubble. Or would you like a low-calorie bubble with that too?"

Faith smiled. "Sassy today, are you?"

"Considering I'm filling in for my boyfriend's job today, and I'm not even getting paid for it," the girl answered, obnoxiously shouting out the word 'paid' for people other than Faith to hear. "Yeah, I'd say I'm pretty fucking irritable today."

"Where's your boyfriend today?" Faith asked curiously. You would think that she was just trying to make small talk with people to be more likeable; but surprisingly, she was genuinely interested in the life of this girl, whom she had never even met!

It was like the Tristan situation all over again!

Heck, maybe both of them were just bald Asian monks.

"Oh, he went to some optometrist," the girl replied airily. "Like, Westerden Optometrist or something, to meet his new phone buddy. God, I forget names so easily. Um, I think the optometrist's name was, er... Sam? No, Tyler. Troye? It definitely started with a T," she said, sounding puzzled. "Hmm, maybe Tom? Theo-"

Faith felt the blood in her body drain down to her feet. "Tristan?"

"Yeah, it was Tristan! That was it!" she confirmed, sounding surprised. "How the hell did you know that?"

"Call me psychic."

The girl was silent again, though this expansive stretch of time was longer than the other two. Just when Faith was wondering whether she actually bought her extremely obscure lie, the girl spoke up in a knowing tone. "Tristan's your phone buddy, isn't he?"

"Wha-" Faith almost dropped her phone in shock. "How did you-"

"Because I went through the same situation, dude. How do you think I met my boyfriend in the first place? I accidentally called this damn shop, and bam! We fell in love, for some frickin' reason," she laughed. "The point is, you sound like you're having some troubles with your phone boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"Is he a girl?"

"Er, no."

"Is he your girlfriend?"

"What?! Definitely not!"

"Is he a boy?"

"I mean, last time I checked, girls didn't have the voice of a teenage boy. Unless science, sound waves and theories about ears were all proved wrong, in which I'm truly mistaken and will withdraw all complaints."

"Okaaaaay... you're weird."

"Thanks, I don't get that a lot."

"Is Tristan your friend?"

"I-I mean, I guess so..."

"Then he's your boyfriend. Technically speaking. According to English."

"Whatever," Faith grumbled in defeat. Whoever this girl was, she was scary good at debating. If she hadn't already considered a degree in law, she could definitely imagine it now! This ice cream girl who didn't even work at the ice cream store, wearing a crazy white judge wig and banging a gavel. Faith even managed to smile at the thought.

"Look, what's happening between you and Tristan?" the girl broke her out of the thoughts of gavel-banging and wig-wearing. "I can tell that it goes deeper than we hate each other and also enjoy acting like dickhead preschoolers, because Fletcher said something about him not even knowing your name."

"He doesn't?" Faith asked, racking her brain, trying to unearth a memory of her telling Tristan her real name. Nothing came up. "Hey, I guess he doesn't! I never actually realised."

"Damn," the girl stated. "Look, I'm not going to meddle with your spat, but I recommend getting to know each other a more than going straight into emotional stuff. It took me two months to warm up to Fletcher, and he's an asshole-ish extrovert! Tristan sounds a lot more reclusive, so it'll take more coaxing to get him out of his shell."

"Oh," Faith said dejectedly. "I guess I did make the mistake of dumping all my life problems on him way too soon... but I thought he could take it!"

"That's what us girls are for, right?" she chuckled. 'If you ever need someone to dump your problems on, give me a call. Guys sometimes just don't understand, no matter how much they try. Don't get me wrong, it's adorable when Fletcher tries to listen to my many life problems, but sometimes, we just need a more relatable shoulder to cry on."

Faith laughed despite herself, feeling as though a huge weight was lifted off her chest. So it wasn't entirely her fault that Tristan hung up on her! Well, it was mostly her fault, but at least she finally found someone to relate to. "I'll keep that in mind. So, what's your name?"

"Emily, or else known as Sushi, or even Sushi-san when Fletcher tries and epically fails to be romantic. You?"

"I'm Faith, or else known as Retina when I'm talking to Tristan, since he doesn't know my real name and seems perfectly content with me calling him Peanut," she clarified, biting her lip. "Hey, could you do me a favour? You can tell your boyfriend who I am, but just don't tell Tristan. I kind of want to keep it a mystery for now, you know?"

What was she doing, asking a favour from a girl who she had basically just started talking to? It was like trusting a madman with access to nuclear weapons and telling him not to blow stuff up; extremely risky. And stupid. But it was worth it, because for some reason, Faith wanted to keep her identity a secret from Tristan.

At least, until the time was right.

"Cross my heart, hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye," Emily chanted, before pausing for a moment. "Besides, if I break my promise and stick to the last line of that poem, I'd be visiting your phone boyfriend anyway! And I promised that I wouldn't meddle..."

"We'll see how long you can keep that promise." Emily's sarcastic enthusiasm had already shown signs of being infectious; Faith's smile now reached her eyes, lips in a genuine upside-down rainbow, as she asked, "Now, where's my ice cream, woman?"

"Coming in twenty minutes, as soon as you tell me your address," Emily said reassuringly. Faith could almost hear her winking, as she added, "Chef's special, just like you asked."

For the first time ever, Faith grinned at the prospect of eating delicious ice cream. "I'm looking forward to it."

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Hey everyone! First long chapter of this story, I hope I didn't disappoint.

PSA: If someone repeatedly calls you and you don't know them, then HANG UP AND BLOCK THEM. Do NOT attempt further conversation. There have been real incidents where people let strangers call them regularly after reading these dialogue stories, because they are under the delusion that they will have the same sort of fairytale romance. THESE STORIES ARE NOT REALISTIC. THERE ARE LOTS OF CREEPS OUT THERE. STAY SAFE!