Running in the opposite direction, it would have not been an exaggeration to say that a million thoughts were also running away with me. 

My mouth felt unusually dehydrated, as if the Sahara Desert had adamantly dried up in it – probably the result of the outright sin that I had just committed. What the hell was I thinking? How were we to work together after that despicably scandalous event? It was an improper, inappropriate, stupid thing. A complete apocalypse... which I wouldn't mind repeating. 

I did not just think that. I was thinking of water. Yes, beautiful, luxurious, blissful water. That was what I needed... to wash off my sins.  

Puzzling yet, the indecipherable question was: why the idea of what just happened seem so wrong? The dehydration was getting intoto my head. I needed locate water, and fast. 

Holy water—

Shut up! That doesn't even make sense. It's not like he and I... ew! Nope, no, no, no, didn't even go there. Ew. 

Standing at the top of a landing that pretty much resembled the balcony from Romeo and Juliet, my eyes skimmed over the titanic house in desperate search for a source of potable liquid. It seemed, everyone had cups, but where the heck did they get the content inside those from?

Ah, well, I was no genius – except in physics, mathematics, chemistry, parts of biology, and occasionally literature, if I was feeling especially poetic — but, something told me that the kitchen would have been a safe bet. So, avoiding as many beastly crowds as possible, I navigated my way to the kitchen. Just as I was about to step in, my walk abruptly inhibited. 

I'd never seen anything so hideous: there was plenty to drink in that small room, alright, but there were also plenty of... people. They were everywhere like swarms of ants. 

"Nope," I decidedly muttered, stepping aside to let a stranger walk out. Maybe I should just ask someone to get me a drink? 

I stopped the next person who was about to step into that purgatory of a place. "Hey, man, do you think you could get me a drink from there?"

"Sure," he replied in a thick American accent, and walked back into the human infested kitchen. He shortly stopped, looking back when he realised that I wasn't following him. "Aren't we going to get a drink?"

I frowned , dumbfounded. Oh. He thought we were going to get a drink. "Oh, no. I'll stay here, you go and get me a drink," I spoke, as if explaining something to a child. "Please," I added, for the sake of curtesy. 

"Oh, sure." 

A few moments later, he was back with red plastic cup, a clone to every other cup in this house, and handed it to me. 

"Ah, lifesaver!"

"Don't mention it," he responded with a smile. 

Colourless liquid inhabited the inside of the cup. At first I took it to be water, but upon bringing it to my lips, I found that it smelled of cherries, nonetheless, I took a sip. A moment later, the same liquid sprayed out of my mouth, and – disastrously drenched the fellow who gave it to me. 

I cursed spluttering. "No, no, no, no!"

He cursed back at me. "Yo, the hell's wrong with you?"

"That wasn't alcohol, was it? Tell me that wasn't alcohol!" I demanded. 

"This is bullshit," he bit, wiping his face. "I do you a favour and this is how you repay me?"

Not quite paying attention to him, I brushed my mouth against my teeth, trying to get all traces of that vile liquid out, but it was useless – some of it had already gone down my throat. "No, you don't understand! I can't drink— it's going..." Exasperatedly, in a state of fear and panic, I left the stranger and his judgemental looks, and stumbled away. 

There was alcohol in my system. For as far as I could remember, Director had demanded that I steered clear of anything that had alcohol in it – hand sanitisers included – in such sternness, that even now, even after knowing him for the traitorous bastard he was, I obeyed and trusted his strict command. 

Alcohol didn't affect me the same way it affected normal people. It was worse: even the slightest consumption of a millimetre of the substance resulted in a catastrophe of dizziness, memory loss and hangover. No exaggeration, metaphor, or hyperbole. 

"202, do you understand? Not a millimetre," he scolded, several years back. 

"Relax, brother," I groaned, slouching back in his CEO's chair, "I heard you the first seventeen times."

"This is serious, 202. Even if your friends are drinking alcohol, do not take it. If you go to a party, do not drink alcohol. Even when you turn eighteen, I will not permit you to go anywhere near that putrid substance. A thirty meter radius should do it. Are you hearing me?"

I smirked. "How about when I turn twenty-one?"

He remained silent. His silence didn't account for much then, my naivety told me that he had nothing else to say. Now, I understood the full extent of his silence. 

I simply could not afford to be drunk – drunk! – if today was the day that I met Gemma. 

I briefly contemplated throwing up the alcohol, when a familiar pair of cold, navy blue eyes flashed in my mind. Everest! He'd know what to do! Yes! 

Wait, no! Yes! No! Maybe? No!

But, I had to. I would ask really quickly and ever so casually, as if nothing had happened between us, and somehow get his help. First, I need to locate him. 

Looking around, I took in the house. There were far too many details for even the brain's unlimited sensory capacity to take in.  Nonetheless, as I skimmed the crowed of party animals in search for my granite not-really-friend, my mind momentarily flashed back to what the reporter at protest asked me: How does it feel to be given so much responsibility at such a young age, at an age where you'd rather be partying. This was probably what it felt like. 

Then, a certain blonde mop of hair caught my eye. 

The cup, which was still in in my hand for some unfathomable reason, shrunk towards the floor, the result of momentarily losing all nerves in my hand. Gemma. Gemma! She was there! 

She wasn't exactly in the crowd, neither was she isolated entirely from the crowd; no, she was sort of at the edge of the human globule, like how Spain clings onto France, or Sri Lanka to India. And despite my (considerably low) expectations, she wasn't doing much of anything, either. How boring. 

Then, for a meteoric, plasma-hot second, her eyes locked with mine. Sure, we were standing twenty-five feet away from each other, and sure, it only lasted so long it could have easily been interpreted as a subtle glance. Except, there was a particular certainty in her eye within that short moment, an unmissable one, that swore hand over heart that she saw me, as well. 

Then, she was walking away. Away! As if I hadn't bent over backwards and a little bit more, for this very moment!

Without even taking time to consider it, I started in her direction, stumbling a bit in a slight stir of adrenaline. 

You crossed a forest and an ocean, I motivated myself. 

I was on her footsteps, but, goddamn, the imbecile was fast! That, and all these people kept getting in my way. 

"Gemma!" I called, totally ditching subtlety.

Even though I was well within hearing range, it didn't come as the biggest surprise that she didn't look back. 

"Gemma!"

No response. 

"Hey, Blondie."

Nope. 

"Reynolds!"

She ignored this, too. 

"Gemma!"

"Screw this." As smooth as mercury, I took another route, shoving people out of my way, turned, and abruptly stopped in front of Gemma Reynolds.