We've Still Got Time

Chapter Eight: That feeling.

[A/N: What do you think of the story so far? Comment your reactions! Hehehe. - x Shan]

I sat in front of my laptop that night and decided to start "searching" for John's "identity". Gosh. I sounded like I'm a character from a crime show or something. This is pretty badass.

80% of my confidence that this thing that I'm planning could be successful came from watching CSI: New York and Without a Trace at Netflix; 15% came from Google search; while the remaining 5% of confidence that is pushing me is my gut feeling. I know that the probability of this, working out, is a bit hazy; but, so far, this is the least that I can do.

This is a start... I guess.

Ten pages later at Google, I started losing hope. I typed "missing + boy + 18-21 years old + New York + 2016" on the search bar. But all I got are some vague websites that hadn't helped me a bit. All I wanted to see are only three things: John's picture, his real name, and the contact number of the person who is looking for him.

I put my laptop on my bed and buried myself under my sheets, suddenly feeling hopeless. Maybe this is impossible. I'm starting from square one. I'm used to continuing stuff people had already started; and now... I feel a bit lost.

"Ella? Sweetie?" I heard Mom knocked lightly on my door before going inside my room.

"Hey," I grumbled, still under my sheets.

"I found this jacket downstairs, is this yours?"

I sat up and looked at the green hoodie Mom is holding. "That's my friend's," I told her. "I borrowed it today and gonna' give it back tomorrow."

She walked towards me, handing me the jacket. She caught a glance at my laptop's screen. I saw her raised an eyebrow before looking at me.

"It's for school... some case study... and stuff," I stammered for words, closing my computer shut.

"O-kay," she said slowly, walking towards the door. "Dinner's ready in fifteen minutes," she added, before going outside.

I grumbled again, collapsing on my bed. I grabbed my phone from under my pillow and called Gibbs.

He answered after two rings, "Isabella."

Who the hell answers the phone by saying the caller's name? Can't he just say a simple "Hello"? Is this a popular-kid-in-high-school-who-sleeps-with-cheerleaders thing?

"Hey," I greeted back. "I still have your jacket here. I'll give it to you tomorrow. What do you think?"

"Sure. Over lunch?"

"Sure."

"Great. I'll pick you up at your department," Gibbs said. Gosh. I still need to get used to the words pick you up, because the only person who offered to pick me up is Dad since my friends don't have their own cars.

"See you," I finally said.

Before I could hang up, Gibbs said on the other line, "—Hey."

"Yo."

"I didn't get the chance to say 'Thank you' for tonight."

I found myself laughing, "Why are you so formal Gibbs?"

He laughed as well, "No. Really, I'm serious. I thought you'd freak out when I told you that you remind me of someone. I mean... I mean I'm pretty crazy for telling that to you so soon."

"I don't usually get that, so I take that as a compliment," I said. "And you know it's probably normal. We all have some things we can't get over with. And..." I sat up, opening my laptop again. "If you think that what you did was crazy, I'm probably insane because I just spent two hours staring at Google clicking odd websites just to find out who John really is."