Oliver Bad Luck in..We Fell In Love In London

 Right, so London. My parents dragged me here, of course. "Culture, Oliver, you need culture!" Blah, blah, blah. Honestly I figured it'd be all grey and dull, like some of those old documentaries Dad watches. But I gotta admit, even I, that I practically scream "I'm too cool for this," found a few things that weren't a complete waste of my time.

First off, the train ride was agony. Two hours stuck in a carriage with my parents gibbering about Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London. I just wanted to plug in my headphones and vibe to cool songs, but no, "family time" or whatever. I know this sounds so depressive, but don't worry, I'm not that kind of guy. When we finally rolled into Euston, I was half asleep and fully annoyed.

But then, stepping out of the tube station in Denmark Hill... okay, fine, it was actually kind of wild. All those flashing lights, the massive screens, the sheer number of people all rushing around like headless chickens. It was like Blackpool, but on a thousand energy drinks. Still, nothing I haven't seen before. Just bigger I guess.

We did the whole tourist circuit. Buckingham Palace? Yeah, it's big. Saw some guards in those ridiculous hats. Didn't salute me, which was a clear oversight on their part. The Tower of London was slightly more interesting, I'll give it that. All the talk of beheadings and torture? Edgy. Not that I was impressed, but it certainly beat looking at another painting of some dead duke.

The real highlight though, was when we got some downtime. I managed to ditch my parents for an hour, telling them I needed to "explore independently," which is code for "find a place with decent Wi-Fi and fewer old people." I ended up near Covent Garden, and it was actually buzzing. Street performers doing magic tricks, people singing opera, the whole thing. I even saw this one guy juggling flaming torches. Pretty standard stuff, but he had good aim. I even bought a ridiculously overpriced iced coffee just to feel like I was part of the scene.

And the fashion? Not bad, for London. Some people actually had a clue. I spotted a few decent trainers and some jackets that weren't completely hideous. It was refreshing after seeing all the drab outfits my parents picked out.

So yeah, London. It wasn't the total snoozefest I predicted. There were moments, fleeting as they were, when even my highly sophisticated, discerning taste found something vaguely tolerable. But don't tell my parents I said that. They'd never let me live it down.

East Dulwich Sainsbury's

Right so after all that "culture" and "sightseeing," we finally made it back to the house we'd rented in Camberwell. Honestly it was pretty decent- far better than I'd expected my parents to pick, all spacious and with a garden, even. I was looking forward to some actual downtime, maybe find a comfy sofa and just zone out on my phone.

But just as I was about to claim my spot, Dad pipes up, "Oliver, darling, we're off to Sainsbury's in East Dulwich! We thought we'd take the double-decker- proper London experience eh?" My mum, of course, chirped in with something equally enthusiastic about "local produce." My eyes probably rolled so hard they almost got stuck. A bus? To a supermarket? When we had perfectly good food delivered to our place back home? I politely, but firmly declined. There was no way I was spending another minute of my precious London trip crammed onto public transport just to watch them argue over organic kale.

So they went, all excited about their "adventure." And just like that, I was all alone. The house was quiet, almost eerily so after the constant chatter of the city. For a second, I just stood there, phone in hand, feeling a bit… aimless. Then, an idea sparked. Alone, right? No parents to drone on about historical facts or tell me to "look up, Oliver, look at the architecture!"?

I slipped my phone into my pocket, grabbed my jacket, and headed out. No real plan, just a vague urge to explore. I wandered down the treelined streets of Camberwell, noticing the little shops and cafes I'd missed when stuck with my parents. It was a different vibe entirely- less touristy, more authentic. Just like I want it to be. I even saw some actual Londoners just living their lives, not gawking at Big Ben and saying "oh woah! Big Ben!".

I ended up cutting through a park, kicking at some stray leaves, and just enjoying the feeling of being completely unbothered. I walked for a while, letting my feet take me wherever they wanted. It was actually… freeing. No schedule, no expectations, just me and the city. And for once, my piercing blue eyes weren't rolling- they were actually looking.

Elephant & Castle

After wandering around for a bit, I somehow ended up near Elephant and Castle Station. And Elephant Park. Funny name, Elephant. It's a proper maze down there, all concrete and those weird orange seats. I checked Citymapper, like any self-respecting person on holiday would, to figure out how to get to Jubilee Gardens (I thought it would be interesting).

Apparently, the 68 bus was my best bet. So I found the right stop and waited, trying to look nonchalant while secretly hoping it wouldn't take forever. Double-decker, of course. You can't come to London and not ride a double-decker. 

Chloe

The bus finally headed to a stop, and I climbed aboard heading straight for the top deck  naturally, so I can sightsee. But as I scanned the seats my expectations of seeing proper Londoners- you know, stylish young people, maybe some actual punks- were immediately dashed. It was packed but not with who I'd imagined. The entire upper deck seemed to be filled with what looked like loud ass Spaniards chattering away in a language I barely understood, and some Indians. Not exactly the edgy independent vibe I was going for. I plugged in my headphones, trying to drown out the noise, feeling a fresh wave of boredom wash over me. This was hardly the epic solo adventure I’d envisioned.

The bus trundled along, past more grey buildings and endless traffic, my reflection in the window showing my own eyes staring back looking absolutely unamused. I was practically counting down the seconds until my stop.

The bus slowed and hissed to a halt near Jubilee Gardens. I yanked out my headphones, eager to escape. But in my haste, I misjudged the last step of the stairs. My foot caught and...and I stumbled, almost face-planting onto the pavement. Please don't laugh, it usually doesn't happen. I flailed, arms windmilling, managing to just about catch myself, probably looking like a complete idiot.

As I regained my balance, slightly mortified, my eyes darted up. And there she was. Standing right there, a few feet away, was a girl, maybe my age. She had wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders and blue eyes just like mine, wide with a mixture of amusement and something else. She'd definitely seen my spectacular trip. My cheeks felt a familiar flush, and for the first time since leaving the house, I wasn't bored.

My face felt hot, a full-blown blush probably painting my cheeks a rather unflattering shade of red. "Euh, you huge ass idiot, Oliver." I muttered under my breath. Of all the ways to make an entrance, face-planting off a bus was not exactly my style.

Just as I was mentally kicking myself the girl started walking towards me. She had this confident, almost bored, look about her, her eyes scanning me up and down. "Wanna help you?" she drawled, a slight, almost imperceptible chuckle escaping her lips. Her tone was dripping with the kind of cool arrogance I usually reserved for myself, as some people say. I don't think this is true anyway. This was going to be interesting.

"I'm fine," I said, trying to sound as unbothered as humanly possible, even though my ankle was still throbbing a little and I felt like an absolute tool. I adjusted my jacket, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity.

She just smirked, a small, knowing upturn of her lips. "Sure you are. Looked like you were trying to reinvent the dismount." Her eyes, almost unnervingly similar to my own, sparkled with that same amused arrogance. It was frustratingly familiar.

I finally managed to stand straight, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Hillarious," I deadpanned. "I've just mastered the art of urban parkour, you wouldn't understand."

She actually let out a short, sharp laugh then, a surprisingly clear sound. "Urban parkour? Right. Well, if you're done with your… performance… where are you headed?" She gestured vaguely towards the London Eye, which loomed impressively in the distance.

I hesitated. My plan had been to just wander, but now, with this unexpected girl, a new possibility opened up. "Jubilee Gardens," I said, trying to sound casual. "Just checking it out."

Her smirk returned. "Fancy that. So am I. Small world, or just clumsy people?" She raised an eyebrow, challenging me. It was clear she wasn't going to let my bus stumble go.

I narrowed my eyes. "Neither. Just excellent taste in destinations."

She chuckled again, then finally started walking towards the entrance of Jubilee Gardens, her wavy brown hair bouncing slightly. "Come on then, 'urban parkour' master. Don't want to miss all the gardens, heh." The sarcasm in her voice was thick, but for some reason, it didn't annoy me as much as it should have.

I hesitated for only a second, then followed her. My solo adventure had taken an unexpected, and potentially far more interesting turn.

We walked into Jubilee Gardens, the London Eye towering over us, and the air buzzing with tourists and the distant murmur of the Thames. She led the way, obviously having been there before, while I surveyed the scene, trying to look unimpressed but secretly thinking it was pretty decent.

"So, what's the grand plan, 'checking it out'?" she asked, stopping in front of one of those coin-operated telescope viewers that point at the Houses of Parliament.

"Just… observe," I said, trying to sound profound. My eyes, however, landed on the telescope. "Though, I suppose a closer look might be… illuminating."

She raised an eyebrow. "Got any coins, Mr. Urban Parkour?"

I patted my pockets. Of course, my parents had given me plenty of cash, but mostly for "emergencies" and "sensible meals," not for touristy gadgets. "Uh, no small change actually."

She rolled her eyes with a theatrical sigh then to my surprise, pulled out a shiny pound coin. "Typical. Here," she said, practically flicking it at me. "Don't say I never help a fellow… tourist."

I caught it deftly- at least that part of my coordination was still intact. I slipped the coin into the slot and heard the clunk. I tried then to adjust the focus. But no matter how much I fiddled with the dial, all I could see was a blurry patch of grey.

"What even is this?" I grumbled, pulling back. "It's completely out of focus. Total rip-off."

She peered over my shoulder, then let out a snort of laughter. "Idiot. You're looking through the wrong end."

My blood ran cold. The wrong end? I quickly looked at the viewfinder then at my own face. Sure enough I'd been peering into the larger, outwardfacing lens, while the tiny eyepiece was barely visible on the side. My cheeks flushed crimson, even deeper than after the bus incident.

"Oh," I managed, feeling like the biggest fool in London. This is the worst medal I could receive. 

She was practically doubled over with silent laughter, her wavy brown hair shaking. "Figures. The 'highly sophisticated taste' can't even operate a basic telescope." I said to myself. But I said inside my mind, so no one could hear me. She straightened up, wiping a tear from her eye. "Here, let the expert show you." She deftly leaned in, placed her eye to the correct eyepiece, and within seconds, she was perfectly focused on Big Ben. "See? Not so hard when you're not a complete pillock."

I just stood there, mortified, but somehow, even more questioning. She handed me the eyepiece, her blue eyes still sparkling with amusement. "Your turn, big shot." And for the first time in a while, I actually felt myself genuinely grin.

Realisation

Chloe just grinned and started walking, weaving through the lingering tourists. I followed, a quick glance at my buzzing phone showing a message. From Mum. I knew I was done. I totally forgot that I had to return home before Mum and Dad would've, so they never knew what I did. I ignored it. "Organic kale" could wait. This was suddenly way more interesting.

We walked for a bit, Chloe leading me through some backstreets I never would've found on my own. She was telling me about some crazy street art she'd seen in Shoreditch when she suddenly stopped, turning to face me.

"So," she said, her head tilted slightly, "what's a lone wolf like you doing out here anyway? Ditching your parents perhaps?" Her blue eyes, so annoyingly perceptive seemed to pierce right through me.

My face felt a little warm. I wasn't used to being called out so directly. "Why not?" I mumbled, trying to play it cool. "Just... exploring. You know." I gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to dismiss the blush I could feel creeping up my neck. "Needed a break from the usual."

She just chuckled, that same arrogant, amused sound. "Right. 'A break.' You're on holiday and now all alone. Funny but whatever..." She didn't push it, though, which I appreciated.

As we continued walking the sky started to turn a deep, bruised purple, the buildings along the Thames beginning to light up. The air was getting cooler, and the buzz of the city shifted, becoming softer, more atmospheric. Before I knew it, we were standing on London Bridge, the iconic towers of Tower Bridge glowing orange in the distance. The view was incredible, the river stretching out beneath us like a dark, winding ribbon strung with glittering jewels. It was proper postcard stuff, but seeing it with the city coming alive in the evening, and not with my parents droning on about how we should take a family picture here made it feel different. Better.

And don't even think about making fun of me. This isn't some sappy rom-com, okay? I didn't fall in love. Not of a fool to fall in love with random girls. Seriously. It was just a day. A really long, unexpectedly not-boring day. So, wipe that smirk off your face. I can see you doubting on me.

The sky had turned completely black, dotted with the first spots of stars, and the city lights below us on London Bridge glittered like scattered diamonds. The air was colder now, with a faint dampness that hinted at the river. Most of the tourists had melted away heading back to their hotels or whatever it is tourists do when the sun goes down. It was just us, a few lingering couples, and the rumble of the occasional car crossing the bridge.

"Well," Chloe said, zipping up her jacket, "this has been an experience." She looked at me, her blue eyes reflecting the distant glow of the city. There was a pause, and for the first time all day, that confident, almost sarcastic edge in her voice seemed to soften slightly.

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, feeling the chill. "Yeah," I muttered. "Definitely not boring."

We just stood there for a moment, the silence surprisingly comfortable after hours of non-stop banter. But then the reality hit. My phone had stopped buzzing ages ago, meaning my parents were probably already tucked into their rental house in Camberwell, possibly wondering if I’d been abducted by aliens or something. Or maybe called the police... "A blond blue-eyed boy from Sussex, tourist in Greater London dissapiered!".. And Chloe… well I had no idea what her plan was.

"So," I finally ventured, the words feeling a bit clunky in the quiet. "What now? Everyone's pretty much gone home."

Chloe sighed a small puff of white in the cold air. She looked around, then back at me, a small unsureness in her expression. "Yeah," she said. "No idea. We just… don't really know what to do."

Talk at the moon glim

My half-smile, which had been stuck on my face for way too long, vanished the moment Chloe said, "gone home." That word just hung there, freezing the air. It was a cold slap reminding me about my parents, their rental house, and going back to my actual, boring home. My face probably went white as a ghost, because a shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the chilly night. Home. Euhh.

"Euhh," I mumbled, trying to quickly change the subject. "So, that hot chocolate place? Is it far?"

Chloe wasn't buying it. She looked around, her playful mood suddenly gone, replaced by a serious face. Her eyes narrowed as she checked out the dark parts of the bridge. "Look, Oliver, we really need to go back. It's late. And honestly, this area... it can get a bit rough after dark. Lots of people around, some not so friendly. You know, migrants, sometimes they hang around, looking for trouble. Stabbings. It's not where you want to be alone at night."

She stopped, looking right at me. "Seriously, where are you from? What county?"

Her words hit me like a bucket of icy water. "Rough... migrants... looking for trouble." My tough-guy act crumbled a bit. I mean, I'm arrogant, not dumb. The idea of actually getting into danger, especially at night, was definitely not in my amazing solo plan. And then her question – "What county?" – just made everything awkward. It was like she was trying to figure me out, or worse, judge me.

"Please," I scoffed, trying to sound cool, even though I could feel my face losing all colour. "I've been in tougher spots than this." Total lie. The riskiest place I'd ever been was probably a messy bus stop back home. "And why do you care where I'm from?" I added, crossing my arms, trying to get back in charge of the conversation.

She just stared at me, her eyes unwavering "Okay, Mr. Clever. It's obvious that you've never been to London...it's not smart to be hanging around here when it gets proper dark, especially if you're not from London. People get stabbed you know. I'm not some paranoid though, but it's practised over here quite often." The bluntness of her statement, and the fact that she clearly wasn't going to let me off the hook about my origins, made me internally groan.

"Fine," I conceded, my voice barely above a mumble. "I'm from... Sussex. Happy now?"

Chloe nodded slowly, a slight frown creasing her brow. She took a deep breath, scanning the bridge again. "Okay look. My place isn't far from here. It's not exactly a five-star hotel, but it's safe. We should just go there." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "No point in being stupid."

"My place it is, then," I mumbled, still a bit miffed about being called out on being a pillock with a telescope and then grilled about my origins. But the truth was, her talk of sketchy areas and stabbings had actually made my stomach do a little flip.

We walked off the bridge and found a bus stop, but the illuminated timetable was grim reading. Buses at this hour were as rare as a quiet moment with my parents. The wind picked up, swirling crisp packets and making me shiver.

"So," Chloe said, breaking the silence, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. "Where are you actually staying? Not far from here?

I hesitated. Telling her about the nice house in Camberwell felt a bit lame, especially after my whole "I'm just exploring" act. "Uh a rental," I mumbled. "In Camberwell. It's... fine."

She snorted. "Camberwell?! That's like ages from here. What, did your folks just drop you off and tell you to 'find yourself'?" There was that annoying knowing tone again.

"Something like that," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "They went to Sainsbury's in East Dulwich. On a double decker. Honestly." I actually shuddered. "I just... needed a break."

Chloe’s expression softened, a genuine smile replacing her usual smirk. "Tell me about it. My parents are worse. They're actually at a conference here. Some boring architecture thing. I just came along because they promised to take me to one of those fancy West End shows I like, but then they got all bogged down with their 'networking' and just basically left me all by myself." She rolled her eyes. "So I've been just… wandering. Until I nearly got collected by a human bowling ball off a bus."

I actually laughed then, a genuine unforced laugh. "Hey! That was urban parkour, remember?" The wind whipped her hair around her face as she laughed too and for a moment, the awkwardness dissolved, replaced by a comfortable understanding. We were both just kids, dumped in London by our well meaning, incredibly annoying parents, trying to make the best of it. And right now, the best of it involved waiting for a bus that probably wasn't coming, on a cold London night, with a girl who'd seen me at my most pathetic.

Where the hell are we?

A faint glow finally appeared down the street- a double decker bus, like a big, red beacon in the night. We practically threw ourselves onto it, scampering up the stairs to the top deck. It was almost empty thankfully, just the hum of the engine and the swaying of the seats. I slumped down by the window, the warmth of the bus a welcome relief from the cold.

I tried to act cool, gazing out at the blur of streetlights, but my mind was replaying the last few hours. My parents' organic kale mission, me ditching them, the telescope incident, Chloe's unnerving ability to see right through me, and then her sudden concern about dodgy areas. It was wayyy to much And now, I was on a random bus, heading to a part of London I didn't know, with a girl I'd met only a few hours ago, all because I didn't want to go home.

Chloe, who had been quiet for a bit, suddenly turned to me, her eyes wide. "Wait," she said, a hint of genuine panic in her voice. "This isn't good. I thought we were going towards..." She trailed off, looking out the window, a frown deepening on her face. "This is... this is really wrong. This bus is going in the completely opposite direction from my place."

A cold dread spread through me. We both looked at each other, the same terrifying realization dawning. We were proper screwed.

"What the fu...?" I panicked.

The bus finally pulled over, hissing its brakes, and we got off. The silence that enveloped us was immediate and unsettling. There were no bright shops, no distant hum of traffic, no lingering people. Just rows and row of silent, dark houses of flats, their windows like empty eyes staring out at us. The streetlights here were sparse, casting long eerie shadows.

"Okay," Chloe said, her voice small and a bad contrast to her earlier confidence. She pulled out her phone, the screen lighting her pale face. "My phone... it's dead. And the map isn't loading properly out here. This isn't familiar at all."

My own phone battery was dwindling rapidly. Oh those damn headphones! We were in some kind of residential void, a weird zone where every house looked the same and the streets twisted confusingly into the darkness. There was literally no one else around. We were officially, undeniably, hopelessly lost.

Stargazing

The chill of the night was settling in and a sudden wave of weariness washed over me. "Lost," I repeated chuckling, the word sounding ridiculous in the overwhelming silence of this suburban labyrinth. Chloe just stared at her dimming phone screen, her face a mask of frustration. 

Then for no good reason at all I let out a snort. A small involuntary puff of air that quickly escalated into a full blown chuckle. The sheer stupidity of the situation- me, utterly lost in a silent London suburb with a girl I'd met hours ago- was suddenly hillarious and funny.

Chloe looked up with her expression slowly shifting from panic to confusion then unexpectedly, to a reluctant smile. "What?" she asked, but a giggle escaped her lips.

"My parents," I gasped, doubling over slightly, the laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. "They're prolly back at the house... Mum, prolly fretting over the organic kale, Dad trying to figure out if I've been abducted by aliens, or worse, joined a youth gang in Peckham.." The image of their panicked faces, contrasting with our utterly pathetic predicament, was too much.

Chloe cracked up then a loud clear laugh that echoed in the quiet street. "Oh God, mine are probably still trying to network at that dull conference! They'll think I'm 'getting an early night' or 'reflecting quietly on the architecture'!"

Still laughing, we sank onto a patch of cold, damp grass by the pavement, pulling our knees up to our chests. The initial panic was gone, replaced by a strange, almost giddy exhaustion. The absurdity of it all, the utter defiance of our carefully constructed cool exteriors, was suddenly liberating. We were lost, probably going to freeze, and definitely in for it when we eventually found our way back, but for a few minutes, huddled on that grass, the thought of our parents' reactions was just ridiculously, hilariously, funny.

Our laughter died down, replaced by the chilling reality of the situation. The wind picked up, a real bite to it now, and the dampness of the grass started to seep through my jeans. The thought of my parents' panic, which had been so funny moments ago, now felt heavy. They'd actually be worried. And I was completely useless right now.

"Okay, this isn't funny anymore," Chloe said, her voice tight, a nervous edge to it that hadn't been there before. She shivered, hugging her knees tighter. "My phone's dead. Completely. And I don't even know what bus we were on half the time."

I pulled out my own phone, the screen stubbornly black. "Mine too. Fantastic. So, what, we just... sleep on someone's lawn? Or try to find a police station?" The words sounded pathetic even to me.

Woof

Suddenly a loud sharp bark cut the silence. We both jumped, startled, our heads whipping around. The sound came from somewhere down the street, followed by another, closer this time, and then the distinct jingle of dog tags.

"Did you hear that?" Chloe whispered, her eyes wide, scanning the darkness. "Please tell me that's not what I think it is."

Before I could answer, a shadow detached itself from the gloom at the end of the street. It was huge, moving with a low, menacing growl that made the hair on my arms stand up. It wasn't just a dog; it was a massive, hulking rottweiler, off its leash, its eyes glinting in the faint streetlight.

"Oh for God's sake," I muttered, my voice barely a squeak. My heart was pounding. This was not urban parkour. This was genuinely terrifying.

The dog let out another guttural growl, then started to move, not running, but stalking towards us, its head low, a menacing silhouette against the dim streetlights.

"Run!" Chloe hissed, scrambling to her feet. "Now, Oliver, run!"

We veered sharply around a corner, hoping to lose the beast, the growls echoing ominously behind us.

Suddenly a blinding flash of headlights erupted from the cross-street. A roar of an engine filled the night as a car, seemingly out of nowhere, screeched around the bend. My eyes widened in terror. We were directly in its path.

"Look out!" I yelled, shoving Chloe forward with all my might, simultaneously yanking myself back. Time seemed to slow. I saw the glint of the car's grille, the frantic spin of its tires on the concrete . For a split second I was sure this was it- being hit by a car in some random London suburb, all because of an unleashed dog.

Then with a bone jarring thud and a sickening squeal of tires, the car swerved violently, missing us by what felt like mere inches. It fishtailed for a horrifying moment before the driver, a man with a horrified expression, wrestled it back under control. The rottweiler, startled by the sudden noise and light, let out a confused whine and veered off into a garden.

We stood there panting, our chests heaving adrenaline coursing through every vein. The sheer terror of being nearly flattened had eclipsed even the fear of the dog. My legs felt like jelly, and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. Chloe was rigid beside me staring at the receding taillights of the car, then back at the empty street.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a ragged gasp. "Oh my God, we almost... we almost just died."

All I could do was nod like an idiot gulping in air, the image of those headlights burning behind my eyelids. This wasn't just "not boring" anymore. This was really really scary. And you know, I'm not getting scared easily.

It's night-night time

"Right," I managed, forcing the word out trying to inject some of my usual arrogance back into my voice. "Well, that was... close. See? Told you I'd been in sketchier situations." Actually I lied. It was a pathetic attempt to regain some shred of my cool facade but it felt important to say it. To pretend I wasn't completely terrified. We'd just faced a huge ass dog and a near head-on collision. My London trip was certainly turning out to be more "memorable" than I'd ever wanted.

But the bravado was a thin veil. As we started walking again, slowly, cautiously, every shadow seemed to hold a threat. The quiet of the street, which had been eerie before, now felt truly sinister. My eyes darted around, searching for movement, for danger. 

Then up ahead a figure emerged from the gloom. He was walking slowly, pulling a luggage bag behind him. He wasn't a threat. He was just... a guy. But my mind already frayed immediately went to the worst case scenario. Was he one of the "migrants" Chloe had mentioned? Was he "looking for trouble"?

My muscles tensed, ready to bolt again. Chloe must have sensed it, because she subtly shifted closer to me. The man stopped a few feet away, his face illuminated by the distant streetlights. He looked tired, confused.

"Beg your pardon," he said, his voice quiet, with a foreign accent I couldn't quite place. "Can you tell me... where is Monument Station?"

Chloe and I exchanged a bewildered glance. Monument Station? I'd never heard of it. I was in bloody London since a few days ago. My mind, still buzzing with adrenaline and fear, couldn't even process the question properly.

"Uh... no," I stammered, my voice sounding incredibly young and uncertain. "Sorry, mate. No idea." I continued.

"We... we don't know this area at all," she added.

The man sighed and nodded faintly, My blood ran cold when he stopped dissapiering. He reappared. The same man, who had been walking away suddenly stopped. Slowly he turned around, the dim streetlights glinting off something in his hand. It was just a phone, I realised, but in my heightened state of paranoia, it looked like a weapon. He took a few steps back towards us, his eyes, previously tired, now sharp and fixed.

"And who are you two?" he asked, his voice still quiet, but with an unsettling edge.

I don't know why, maybe it was the sheer absurdity of the situation—lost, almost run over, being threatened by a man asking for Monument Station—but a tiny nervous giggle escaped my lips. It started small, then morphed into a low, almost uncontrollable chuckle. It was a pathetic, fear induced laugh, completely inappropriate for the situation.

The man's eyes narrowed. "You find this funny?" he growled. "You find me funny, giggling children?" His voice dropped, becoming a low, menacing rumble. "You'll see what happens to kids who taunt me."

He took another step and that's when I saw it properly. Not a phone. It was a syringe glinting sickly.

"What the fuck!?" I stammered trying to back away, but my feet felt stuck to the pavement. Chloe let out a small gasp beside me.

He moved fast, way faster than he looked. Before I could even react, he lunged. A sharp stinging prick in my arm, just above the elbow. I cried out, more from shock than pain, and stumbled back. My vision blurred. The streetlights stretched into blurry streaks. My head felt heavy, like it was filled with cotton.

Then he moved to Chloe. I saw her try to pull away but he grabbed her arm. Another quick horrible jab. She let out a choked sound.

The world started to spin. The man's face, a distorted blur, was the last thing I saw before everything went black.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up. Not gradually, but with a jolt, like someone had flicked a switch. My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes. The first thing I noticed was the smell – stale air, a hint of something metallic.

I blinked, trying to clear my blurry vision. I was lying on a thin mattress on the floor. The room was small, lit by a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were plain, concrete, and there were no windows. Just a solid metal door on the far side.

Beside me, I heard a groan. I turned my head, wincing at the sudden movement. Chloe. She was stirring, pushing herself up on her elbows, her wavy brown hair a mess around her face. Her blue eyes, usually so sharp were dazed and confused.

Grigore

We looked at each other.

My head was throbbing, a dull ache behind my eyes. The last thing I remembered was that prick in the arm, then everything just… went out. Now I was lying on a thin mattress, in a small, windowless room with concrete walls and a single bare bulb. Beside me, Chloe groaned, stirring to life, her eyes dazed.

"What... what happened?" she mumbled, pushing herself up on her elbows. Her hair was a mess.

"Some guy," I croaked, my throat dry. "He... he used a syringe." The memory was fuzzy, but the fear was sharp and cold.

We looked at each other, the same terrifying question hanging in the air. Where were we? And what the hell was going on? 

"My head feels like it's full of sand," she whispered, rubbing her temples. "And I can't... I can't feel my phone anywhere."

I checked my own pockets. Empty. My phone, my wallet, everything was gone.

"They took everything," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Our phones, our stuff."

"This isn't good, Oliver. This is really not good." She looked around the grim room, her gaze lingering on the solid metal door. "We're trapped."

Chloe pushed herself up against the cold concrete wall, her face pale under the harsh light of the bare bulb. "Trapped," she repeated, the word sounding hollow in the small room. "What do we even do?"

My mind was racing, trying to find an escape route, a plan, anything. But there was nothing. No windows, no obvious weaknesses in the metal door. Just concrete, a thin mattress, and the terrifying silence. The bravado, the arrogance, all of it was gone, replaced by a cold knot of dread in my stomach.

"I don't know," I admitted, the words tasting like ash. My usual quick comebacks, my sarcastic replies, felt completely useless here. We were just two dumb kids who’d gotten lost and stumbled into something way over our heads.

Chloe hugged her knees to her chest.

"My parents are going to freak out," she whispered. "They'll probably call the police, but how would they even find us here?"

"Mine too," I muttered, picturing my mum's horrified face, my dad's impotent rage. They'd gone to Sainsbury's for organic kale, and I'd ended up... here. The irony wasn't even a little bit funny anymore.

A sharp click echoed from outside the metal door. We both froze, our eyes locked on the door, our breathing shallow. The sound of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, grew louder, then stopped right outside our room. The silence that followed was deafening, stretching out, each second feeling like an eternity.

Then, the ominous scrape of a key in the lock.

The metallic scrape of the key in the lock was impossibly loud in the small, silent room. Chloe let out a tiny, choked whimper beside me, her eyes wide with terror. This was it. Whatever "this" was.

The heavy door creaked open, just a sliver at first, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. My breath hitched. Then, it swung fully inward with a low groan, revealing a figure silhouetted against a dimly lit hallway. It wasn't the man with the syringe. This person was much taller, broader, a towering shadow. I couldn't make out any features, just a large, imposing presence.

A low guttural voice, heavy with an accent I couldn't place, rumbled into the room. "Awake, are we? Good."

The figure stepped forward, and I saw a glimpse of a uniform – dark, almost military-looking. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't looking angry, either. Just...

Just... big. He was wearing dark, almost military-looking clothes, and he filled the doorway. His face was in shadow, but I could feel his eyes on us.

A low, guttural voice, heavy with an accent I couldn't place, rumbled into the room. "Awake, are we? Good." He didn't sound angry or even particularly interested. Just impatient.

He stepped fully into the room, and the door swung shut behind him with a soft thud. No lock clicking. I noticed that immediately. He wasn't bothered about us trying to escape, which was a chilling thought. As he moved into the dim light of the bare bulb, I could see his features better. He had a stern face, clean-shaven, with sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He wasn't the man with the syringe.

He glanced at Chloe, then at me, then back at Chloe. "Right. The girl. And the boy who thinks he's invisible." I frowned. What did he mean by that? 

He walked slowly, deliberately, towards the mattress, making me instinctively flinch back. He wasn't carrying anything. No weapons, no papers, just his large, imposing self.

"My name is Grigore," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "And you two are in a bit of a pickle." He paused, letting that sink in. "Your parents are looking for you. Or, they will be. Very soon. You caused quite a stir."

Chloe found her voice, though it was still a little shaky. "Where are we? What do you want?"

Grigore's eyes flickered to her, then back to me. "Where you are is irrelevant right now. What I want... is information. And cooperation. And what happens next, depends entirely on that." He leaned against the concrete wall, arms crossed, watching us with an unnerving stillness. "So. Let's start with who you are. And why you were wandering around London at night."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Chloe cut me off. "We were just... out. It's not illegal to walk around." Her voice was still shaky, but there was a flicker of her usual defiance.

Grigore’s gaze sharpened, fixing on her. "No, it is not illegal to walk. But it is foolish to wander in certain areas. And to end up here... that suggests more than just wandering." He paused, his eyes sweeping over both of us again. "So, you are from where? Your names? And why were you put to sleep?"

The last question hit me. "Put to sleep?" I blurted out, a fresh wave of nausea rising in my stomach. The syringe. It hadn't been to harm us, but to... incapacitate us. That almost felt worse.

"Yes, put to sleep," Grigore confirmed, his voice flat. "It is a precaution. You will answer my questions. And I will know if you lie." He took another step closer, his shadow falling over us. "Start with the names. Then tell me everything about how you came to be near London Bridge tonight." His eyes, cold and unwavering, bore into mine. This wasn't a casual chat. This was an interrogation.

Chloe looked at me, a silent plea in her eyes. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. No point in being difficult, not with a guy like this.

"Oliver," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Oliver Miller..." 

Grigore's gaze flickered to Chloe, who nodded grimly. "Chloe Davies," she said.

He pulled out a small, sleek tablet from an inside pocket of his uniform. His fingers moved quickly over the screen, typing something. "Now, tell me. Why were you near here? And why were you alone?" His eyes still fixed on us, left no doubt that he expected the truth.

Chair

His eyes were completely devoid of expression, like he was looking through us not at us. He didn't answer. He just stood there still holding that creepy syringe.

Then without a word, he turned and walked out of the room. The heavy metal door swung shut with a dull thud. We heard the distinct click of a lock. He was gone.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Chloe stared at the door. "He just left?"

"Yeah," I giggled, my voice raw afterwards. "And he locked us in." 

And the guy with the needle was definitely not some friendly London official. He was something else. 

I scrambled up but my legs were still a bit wobbly and yanked at the metal door handle. It was solid, unmoving. "Bloody!" I kicked the door, a pathetic thud against the unyielding metal.

Chloe was looking in the room lime a desperate. Her eyes landed on the only other thing in the room besides the thin mattress: a rickety wooden chair in the corner. It looked old and flimsy, but it was something.

"The chair," I guessed. "Maybe we can break the lock, or... or make enough noise to get someone's attention!"

She didn't need to be told twice. I grabbed the chair, its worn wood feeling surprisingly light in my hands. It was pathetic, really, two kids in a concrete box about to ram a flimsy chair against a solid metal door. But what else were we going to do? Wait for the syringe guy to come back?

"Ready?" She muttered, positioning the chair.

I nodded.

With a shared grunt we lifted the chair and swung it, slamming the legs into the metal door with a surprisingly loud crash! The chair jolted, the wood creaking, but the door didn't even budge. We hit it again. And again. The chair began to splinter, but the door remained stubbornly shut. We were making noise, a lot of it, but no one was coming. Just the echo of our desperate efforts in the silent, cold room.

We hit the door again and again, the chair splintering, our arms aching. Just as we thought it was useless, there was a sharp crack from the lock, and the door lurched inward with a groan of tortured metal.

"It worked!" Chloe gasped, her eyes wide.

"Go, go, go!" I yelled, ignoring her and shoving the now broken chair aside. We burst out of the room, into a dimly lit, narrow hallway. It was exactly like the one the syringe man had come from, made of the same cold concrete. We didn't waste a second, just ran, our footsteps echoing loudly in the silence.

We ran like mad, our lungs burning, like in those badly animated memes or Looney Tunes- You know, you watched that when you were 10- turning corners, not knowing where we were going, just desperate to get out. My legs were screaming, my vision blurring, and then—thud. My foot caught on something invisible in the dim light, and I went sprawling, hitting the hard floor with a painful smack.

"Ugh, are you serious?!" Chloe skidded to a halt beside me, looking down. Then, to my utter disbelief, a small chuckle escaped her. "Really? Again? It's like your signature move, isn't it? First the bus, now a random hallway. You're gonna make tripping famous."

I rolled my eyes and giggled. 

We hit the door again and again, the chair splintering, our arms aching. Just as we thought it was useless, there was a sharp crack from the lock, and the door lurched inward with a groan of tortured metal.

"It worked!" Chloe gasped, her eyes wide.

"Go, go, go!" I yelled, shoving the now-broken chair aside. We burst out of the room, into a dimly lit, narrow hallway. It was exactly like the one the syringe man had come from, made of the same cold concrete. We didn't waste a second, just ran, our footsteps echoing loudly in the silence.

We ran like mad, our lungs burning, turning corners, not knowing where we were going, just desperate to get out. My legs were screaming, my vision blurring, and then—thud. My foot caught on something invisible in the dim light, and I went sprawling, hitting the hard floor with a painful smack.

"Ugh, are you serious?!" Chloe skidded to a halt beside me, looking down. Then, to my utter disbelief, a small chuckle escaped her. "Really? Again? It's like your signature move, isn't it? First the bus, now a random hallway. You're gonna make tripping famous."

I was about to snap back, to tell her it was an accident (again) but then she looked past me down the corridor we'd just come from, towards an archway of light. Her eyes widened, not with fear this time, but with recognition.

"Wait a minute," she said, her voice dropping. "I know this place. This is... this is Soho."

I pushed myself up, wincing. "Soho? How the hell did we end up in Soho?" My head was still fuzzy and the last thing I remembered was a random residential street near London Bridge.

Chloe was already scrambling to her feet, her usual arrogant confidence flooding back, mixed with a healthy dose of relief. "No idea, but thank God. Come on, let's get out of here. We can get a bus from here."

She practically dragged me out of the building and then we were on a bustling street even at this late hour. Neon lights, late-night cafes, the distinct hum of people and traffic. It was a jarring shift from the silent, terrifying concrete box.

We quickly found a bus stop, relief flooding through me when I saw the recognizable route numbers. "Right," Chloe said, pulling out her almost-dead phone again, trying to get a signal. "Okay, we need a bus to Camberwell. Let's just get out of here before anything else completely insane happens."

Chapter 13: Evening Double Decker

The bus rumbled on. I watched the city lights blur by, a dull ache in my knee where I’d stacked it, but mostly just a profound sense of relief. We were out.

Chloe was in the seat next to me, her head leaning against the window, watching the world go by. The fear had drained from her face leaving her looking tired.

We didn't talk much on the ride. There wasn't much to say, not after nearly being run over and then well, whatever the hell had just happened in that concrete room. The bus was mostly empty now, the top deck ours.

There was this strange quiet between us with the hum of the bus engine filling the space. It felt like we'd known each other for years not just a chaotic evening.

I looked at her, really looked at her. Her brown hair, a bit messy from the night's adventures, her blue eyes reflecting the distant streetlights. She looked up at me, and that flicker of something new was there again. Something that wasn't just defiance or amusement.

I didn't think about it. Didn't overthink it. I usually take decisions after thinking about them. Maybe..my hand just sort of reached out finding her...neck... her skin was cool. Her gaze didn't waver. And then I leaned in.

Yes I did!

Her lips were soft. It was quick, just a brush, a tentative press. No fireworks, no dramatic music. Just a quiet real moment on a quiet London bus, swaying slightly as it pulled away from a stop. When I pulled back, her eyes were still fixed on mine and a little blush on her cheeks. And mine probably too..maybe.

The bus hissed to a stop, the doors opening for our actual stop. We walked off into the quiet Camberwell night. We didn't really have a plan, just the overwhelming need to not be out in the dark anymore.

"So," I mumbled, feeling oddly awkward now that we were off the bus and back on solid ground. The cold air felt sharper.

Chloe looked around, then surprisingly, started leading the way. "Which one's your place?" she asked already heading down a familiar street. "Let's just get you there. My parents will probably be looking for me soon too."

We walked in comfortable silence until we reached the gate of the house I was staying in. I felt so good before. Fullfilled, thankful. It looked warm, inviting. Normal.

"Well," I said, my voice a little rougher than I intended. "This is it." I hesitated. Because I couldn't just let her disappear. "Look, um... your TikTok?" I was feeling like a desperate idiot but I really needed to know. "Like, so I can... y'know. See if you survived the night. And... whatever." My cheeks felt warm, I knew I was blus-

Chloe looked at me, smiling. She seemed to hesitate for a second. "My TikTok?" she repeated. 

I waited.

"Fine," she said, telling me her username. "Just don't make fun of my holiday pics," she said sarcastically.

"Right," I mumbled, trying to act casual, as if I wasn't just frantically saving her details. "See you around, maybe."

"Yeah. See you, Oliver."

Then she turned and walked off into the darkness, leaving me standing there, the taste of her lips still lingering, and the weirdest, most intense day of my life finally, truly over. Maybe. 

Actually, not really. More was about to come. I had to knock on the door, then explain to my parents where the hell I was, who kidnapped me, how I got home, and what just happened. Of course I wouldn't have included Chloe in my very very long story. 

Knock-knock and Police

But the moment she vanished into the gloom, my triumphant swagger started to deflate. Because then came the real challenge: facing the parental units.

I sauntered, well, limped actually, up to the front door, trying to look like I'd just been out for a perfectly normal, entirely un-kidnapping-and-near-death-experience sort of evening. My eyes usually radiating an almost supernatural coolness, probably held a hint of apprehension. I reached for the doorbell, that familiar sense of impending doom settling in. You know, the kind you get just before a pop quiz you haven't revised for only worse.

I pressed the bell. Once. Twice. Waited. Nothing. Not a peep. No indignant cries of "Oliver! Where on earth have you been?" No frantic shuffling inside. Just... silence.

I frowned. What was this? Some new parental tactic? The silent treatment, but taken to an extreme art form? I knocked. A firm, confident rap. Then another, louder. Still nothing. The house, which had felt so inviting just moments ago, now felt oddly cold, inert. Like a giant, brick-built enigma wrapped in a mystery.

My mind, usually so adept at conjuring up witty comebacks, started to conjure up far less appealing scenarios. Had they gone out again? Left me a note? Or worse... had they already informed the authorities of my disappearance, setting off a chain of events that would undoubtedly lead to a most embarrassing public spectacle? The thought made my cheeks flush, even in the cool night air.

This was perplexing. One moment, a frantic "where are you?" text, the next, absolute radio silence. It was almost as if the house itself was holding its breath, refusing to acknowledge my presence. And honestly, for a chap of my undeniable brilliance, being ignored by a mere dwelling was insulting.

And that's when a new, rather alarming thought decided to saunter into my brain, uninvited, like a particularly unwelcome relative. This wasn't just silence. This was utter, complete, baffling silence. No lights on upstairs. No distant murmur of the telly. It was as if the place had simply... ceased to exist. Or, more likely, ceased to contain anyone.

I tried the door handle. Locked, naturally. My parents, despite their occasional bouts of monumental idiocy, rarely left the house unlocked. Unless, of course, they’d forgotten in their frantic scramble to find the perfect organic kale. A small, desperate hope, but a hope nonetheless.

My phone, that miraculous device that had, mere minutes ago, provided Chloe's digital contact information, was suddenly a dead weight in my hand. No signal. Not even a glimmer. Just a black screen, reflecting my increasingly bewildered face. Typical. When you actually needed the blasted thing, it decided to play dead.

I rattled the letterbox. Pushed my eye to it, peering into the gloom. Nothing but darkness and the faint, unsettling smell of stale air. It was like a scene from one of those dreary B-movies Dad sometimes forced me to watch. The deserted house. The lone protagonist. The impending sense of something utterly ridiculous about to happen.

My stomach which had only just settled after the whole near-death-by-rottweiler-and-car experience, started doing a rather frantic jig. This wasn't just a slight inconvenience. This was a proper pickle. A situation that would, undoubtedly, make for a rather humiliating anecdote later. The shame. The utter, crushing shame.

Just as I was contemplating the truly unthinkable – like, say, sleeping on the rather damp garden bench – a light flickered in the house next door. A curtain twitched. Someone was home. Someone, probably a nosey neighbour with a penchant for interfering, was about to witness the lowest point in my otherwise stellar career as an urban explorer. This was going to be brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

My frantic pressing of the doorbell seemed to finally stir the inhabitants of the neighbouring dwelling. A light flickered on inside, followed by the sound of shuffling and the distinct clinking of what I imagined to be multiple locks being undone. Clearly, they weren't expecting a late-night delivery of charm and existential dread.

The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of a face belonging to a woman of indeterminate age, framed by a rather alarming set of hair curlers. Her eyes, magnified by spectacles, peered out with an expression that combined suspicion with a touch of weary resignation.

"Yes?" she coughed, her voice sounding like stones being poured down a leakage. Her gaze immediately fell upon my slightly dishevelled form, no doubt cataloguing every unfortunate detail from my scraped knee to my probably-still-blushing cheeks.

"Yes, hello!" I began, a desperate urgency creeping into my voice despite my best efforts to maintain an air of dignified nonchalance. "The people next door, you see, the ones at number eighteen? They're... well, they're looking for me. And they're not home. Do you, by any chance, know anything?" I tried to put on my most charming, trustworthy grin, which, considering the circumstances, probably looked more like a pained grimace. I just wanted to be inside, safe from rogue dogs, phantom syringe-wielders, and the terrifying prospect of sleeping on a Camberwell garden bench.

The woman squinted, pushing her spectacles further up her nose. Her gaze, already unnervingly scrutinizing, sharpened. "What the hell? I don't know people on eighteenth. There's a literally Airbnb." she finally croaked, her voice now carrying a hint of genuine confusion, mixed with suspicion.

Well, oh yes bloody of course there is a fucking Airbnb! That's why you don't know me.

Just as I was about to launch into a simplified, highly edited version of my evening's escapades – omitting, of course, the parts involving strange men, syringes, and spontaneous trips – a new light, this one blue and flashing, decided to join the party. A police car, looking far too official for the quiet street, cruised slowly past, its headlights sweeping over us like an accusatory finger. My heart did a little jig of terror.

The car stopped. The window rolled down, and a policeman, looking entirely too well-rested for this hour, poked his head out. His eyes, surprisingly sharp, landed directly on me.

"Evening," he drawled, his voice calm, which was, frankly, more terrifying than if he'd been shouting. "You wouldn't happen to be an Oliver Miller, would you?"

---

My jaw probably hit the pavement. "Oliver Miller?" I spluttered, the name sounding utterly foreign and vaguely insulting. "No! I'm Oliver Maxwell!" The sheer audacity of being mistaken for some other Oliver was, frankly, a blow to my ego, even under these rather trying circumstances.

The neighbour merely blinked at the policeman, then back at me, as if this was all a perfectly normal Tuesday evening in Camberwell.

The officer however didn't seem impressed by my indignation. He gave me a nod. "Oliver Maxwell, is it? Right. Well, we've had a report. Missing person, fitting your description. Parents rather frantic, I'm told." His gaze swept over my dishevelled state, lingered on my probably-still-blushing cheeks, and then, rather pointedly, landed on my scraped knee. "Looks like you've had a bit of an evening, Mr. Maxwell."

My carefully constructed facade of cool indifference crumbled into a pile of unfortunate rubble. Missing person report? Frantic parents? This was far, far worse than a public spectacle; this was an actual, certified disaster. My brilliant solo adventure had culminated in a police interrogation on a quiet residential street, mistaken for some other chap, and with a rather unflattering injury.

"I can explain," I started, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak. Pathetic, even. How exactly was I supposed to explain the rottweiler, the near-miss with a car, the syringe, the concrete room, and the sudden, inexplicable appearance in Soho? It sounded like the ramblings of a lunatic.

The officer just raised an eyebrow, a clear invitation for me to elaborate. The neighbour, meanwhile, seemed to be enjoying the show, her lips pursed in what I suspected was a smug little smile. This was going to be a long night.

"Right," I began, trying to pull myself together, to sound coherent, like a responsible, albeit temporarily disoriented, young man. "It all started when my parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided an evening trip to Sainsbury's for... organic kale was a vital cultural experience." I paused, gauging the officer's reaction. Nothing. Just that steady, unblinking stare. "And I, naturally, opted out. One can only endure so much talk of root vegetables."

I then launched into the highly edited version. The "exploring" that led to Elephant and Castle, the accidental wrong bus, getting lost in a less-than-salubrious residential area, the incident with the overly enthusiastic dog (I carefully skipped the vehicular near-miss, and most important, Chloe). I conveniently glossed over the syringe-wielding guy and the concrete room in Soho, chalking it up to a vague "very confusing and frightening encounter" with someone I'd mistaken for a concerned citizen. My sudden appearance in Soho? A quick, frantic, and entirely unmemorable bus ride from said confusing encounter. Why did I just give out all the locations I'd been to? Because there are cameras. Everywhere.

The officer listened, his expression giving nothing away. He didn't interrupt, didn't scoff, which in a way, was even more concerning. When I finally finished, breathless and probably looking like I'd just run a marathon, he just nodded slowly.

"Right," he said again, drawing out the word. He looked at the neighbour, who had now decided to cross her arms, making her curlers bob slightly. "And you are...?"

"Mrs. Higgins," she announced, clearly relishing her moment in the spotlight. "He just ringed my door."

The officer turned back to me. "Well, Mr. Maxwell," he said, and I swear there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "It seems we'll need to make a few calls. Perhaps a trip to the station. Just to clear things up. For your own safety, of course."

A trip to the station. My blood ran cold. This was going to be the absolute highlight of my London visit. My parents would be thrilled. Absolutely thrilled.

My precious Oliver

The ride to the station was hell as you'd imagine. The inside of a police car at night isn't exactly a luxury ride and the silence from the officer was even worse than a lecture in English class. I tried to stare out the window pretending to be fascinated by the late night streetlights, but I could feel his eyes on me probably trying to figure out if I was a genuine missing person or just a very dramatic teenager. But the reality was that I was tired and unslept. Really tired.

At the station it was all fluorescent lights and greyness, tired faces. They sat me down in a small room that smelt of old coffee and regret. My phone was finally working, as I put it to charge, and the officer made a few calls. It turns out my parents had reported me missing, with Mum apparently in hysterics about "my precious Oliver" and Dad trying to sound calm while probably hyperventilating. The police had even checked the rental house, found it empty, and just assumed I'd done a little runner. A brilliant piece of detective work, that.

It took what felt like an eternity for my parents to arrive, their faces a mix of relief and fury. Mum immediately wrapped me in a hug that nearly squeezed the life out of me, while Dad just stood there, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to ground me until I was thirty.

The officer gave them the version I'd told him of my "story"— the bus, getting lost and the dog. I conveniently thought of the man with the syringe and the concrete room that only me and Chloe knew about. Some things, even for the precious little Oliver, were best left unsaid.

As we were finally walking out of the station, Mum already launching into a scold and "conversation" about "irresponsible behaviour" and "the dangers of London," Dad stopped me. He put a hand on my shoulder, his expression serious. "Oliver," he said, his voice quiet. "We were worried sick. Don't ever do something like that again." Then, he looked at my scraped knee, then back at me. "And what the hell happened to you?"

I just shrugged, trying to act tough. "Oh, you know, just London. It's a jungle out there." I ignored the lingering phantom prick in my arm, and the memory of Chloe's face as the door clicked shut. Some parts of the jungle, it seemed, were best explored alone. And then never spoken of again.

Home

The contrast was jarring. One minute, I was an absolute hero navigating a labyrinth of urban peril with a quick witted girl. The next I was back to being just Oliver, the slightly-too-clever-for-his-own-good teenager who occasionally sulked about homework. It was frankly insulting.

But London, or rather, the memory of London, lingered. Especially the memory of Chloe. I found myself staring at her social media profile more often than I'd care to admit. Her holiday pics, as she'd called them, were mostly just blurry selfies and pictures of rustic looking villages...not exactly thrilling. But her blue eyes had that annoying, knowing spark that I loved.

I'd occasionally draft messages in my head. "Dearest Chloe, I trust you haven't been abducted by any further syringe wielding maniacs since our last eventful encounter?" Or, "To the esteemed Ms. Davies, a query regarding the current state of your urban navigation skills, and perhaps a casual inquiry into whether you too dreamt of concrete rooms and terrifying dogs."

But I hadn't sent them.  I eventually drifted off to sleep and the hum of London traffic in my head still running. The city was still out there full of its normal chaos and I, now knew, its hidden, terrifying corners. And somewhere out there, was Chloe. I wondered if she was thinking about the day too. And if she ever remembered that kiss.