Escape the world. Forget it all and begin your journey to a fresh new start.
That's the tagline of the rehab center they have come to stay at.
Phoenix has had a rough past, and has come here to start over.
Milo doesn't remember a thing from his, and can't wait to get out of the place and figure out his life. .
What happens when they meet? That's a story to tell.


4. (3)

Day 13.
She waved at him during dinner.

He smiled at her in the hallway.

Day 19.
She let him pick a book from her room.

He came and sat beside her on movie day.

25 down.
65 to go.
His name was Milo Thorn. He was 17. His favorite book was Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.  His favorite movie was The Dead Poets Society. He loved My Chemical Romance and The Smiths. And he was good at writing poems.
Not as good as Phoenix, though.
And apparently, his hidden talent was being able to relate anything to Phoenix.
And then spend hours thinking about her.

There were a couple of days left till the next poem reading.
Her and Milo had agrees bring their poems and read them to each other that day.
"It's not THAT good," Milo scratched the back of his neck.
"You're saying as if I'm some Shakespeare!"
"Your last one was AMAZING."
"Eh, whatever," she went red.
After about 5 more minutes of 'c'mon's and 'be a sport!'s Milo cleared his throat and began to read from the piece of paper he was holding,
the wall is painted
with a splatter of my blood
clotting, where it could've been
a picture of us
there's a streak of tears
frozen on my face
just like our good times
frozen, in space
clenched in my hand
is a crumpled note
saying, 'so, I guess it is,
the parting of the roads'

Phoenix could feel her heart beating and Milo's unsteady breath. He began,
"I know, it's not so-"
"Shut up! It's amazing."
"Uh-huh," she nodded her head vigorously.
"Thanks," he blushed.
Phoenix asked him to read it again, and again.
That was great writing. Who wrote about a suicide scene like that?
Now, it's your turn," said Milo.
Before Phoenix could protest, he was already nudging her, "C'maaaaaaun!"
"Alright," she huffed, taking out her poem.
She took one final breath, and began,
temples, chapels, shrines and mosques  
all homes of almighty Gods    
whoever the hell has more might    
she prays to, for a life of love
she's tired of demons and the ghosts    
that possess her heart and soul
heck, she even hates the angels
for they're no different without the halos
fire, air, water, earth      
skin, flesh, bones and blood
it's all about the pair's that match
26 alphabets and a million words
raised hands to pray for this
raised glass to drink on it
all in hope, all in vain
nothing worked, nothing will
'cuz at the end of the night                
we're all painted red                    
tear stained eyes
and awake in bed      
and at the end of the day                                            
we stay awake just to dream                                    
then close our eyes and fly away                            
being cut down, hopes are green

"That. Was. Beautiful!"

Just like when he'd heard her first poem, he tried to find a flaw in this one too. But no, it was perfect.
"That. Was. Beautiful!" he said with long pauses.
"Thanks," Phoenix went red again.
"My poem was like the Robin Hood in Teen Titans, until you showed up with your Batman!"
Phoenix narrowed her eyes, a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips, "That was so lame!"
"Do YOU have a better one?" Milo said challengingly, playfully.
"Tinkerbell, until Wendie showed showed up?"
"Isn't that a little dark?"
"We're fucking rehab?" Phoenix said dramatically.
And Milo.
He laughed.

He laughed.
She had never heard him laugh before. He'd sometimes chuckle, or look at her amused. But this...
He had once mentioned that he couldn't sing to save his life.
But his laugh, it was so rich, and melted in her ears like butter.
She could just record it on her phone, set it as her doorbell, mobile ringtone, and microwave beep. Put it on a CD and play it on repeat until she knew no other sound.

She smiled back at him.
She'd smiled at him before, that fake toothy smile.
What had he said about it? That it seemed liked someone had glued it on her face to distract others from her dead eyes.
But this...
This was genuine. The little blue flickers in her eyes lit up, and she looked so alive.
He could just take a picture of her right then, and set it as his phone's home screen, desktop background, and maybe one day, the cover of his autobiography.
They'd hang her picture in the entrance to the Louvre, that's how she looked.
And just like he'd done the two times when he'd heard her poems, he tried to find a flaw in her.
But in that moment, she was perfect.

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