Parallels | Dylan O'Brien

8 - Nonsense

Los Angeles 
-Lydia Moon-

I open my eyes the next morning to find myself on the sofa of a living room I don't immediately recognize. I look to my left; the room seems empty with only a table and a cupboard in sight. I look to my right; a sleeping boy lies next to me, only a few inches between us. Then I remember last night and the movies we watched together. We didn't say much besides some comments on the movie and the boy explaining how the filming process went. I remember thinking he's a great actor and actually liking his presence. He moves a little beside me and I sit up straight. My neck feels a little funny, probably from the positions I took on this sofa last night. My eyes scan his face. The moles on his cheek, the small smile on his face. Now I notice how cute his nose actually is. His hair reminds me a little of Justin's. Slowly, his eyes flutter open, the honey brown color appearing. I shake myself out of my daze before he notices I was staring at him and look around the room a little as if I had just woken up.
"Morning," he mumbles and stretches, soft baby-dinosaur-like sounds come out of his mouth. I chuckle a little before putting up my fence again. I can't show him that I'm starting to like him. He just seems so familiar. Like I've seen him before. Like I've known him before, but I forgot about him. I get up from the sofa and flick my hair over my shoulder. I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse turning around. I walk towards my bag and take out my phone. I can't believe I haven't been on my phone for a whole night.

1906; I type in my passcode, but I get a buzz, signaling the wrong passcode. This is so strange, I'm sure I typed the right code. I try it again, but it's still wrong. I look at the lockscreen again and realize this isn't the one I set. I had a picture of me and Justin as my lockscreen, I'm sure. This one is a picture of a view, a beautiful view I might add, and a silhouette of a person. I can't see who it is, but I'm sure it's someone I don't know.
"What is it?" I hear the boy say behind me. I turn around and show him the phone.
"I don't think this is my phone. Someone must've switched them," I don't know why my fence constantly falls down when he talks to me. It's something about his soft voice and his honey brown eyes. The ones that widen once the words came out of my mouth. He walks over to me and looks at the phone. He knows something. He knows something, but he doesn't want to tell me. I want to ask him what it is, but I can't. It's like my mouth is completely numb, like someone has taken my voice away like Ursula did with Ariel in the Little Mermaid.
"Try your birthday," he commands sweetly. I try but fail. The buzz makes me jump every time. "Try 1996," he suggests, but there's another buzz, making me jump once again and bump into his chest. I didn't even realize how close he was. "Try 2608," his voice is softer, as if he doesn't want to believe it would be that combination. But when I type in the numbers, my phone unlocks. I look up to Dylan and he has this shocked look on his face.
"What's on the twenty-sixth of August?" I ask him, curious about why I would use that password.
"My birthday," he whispers and steps away from me, scratching the back of his head.
"Why would I put your birthday as my password?" I need to know what the hell is going on. I know he knows. I know he knows it's not a concussion. It's more than that. It's something completely different. Something he doesn't want to tell me.
"I don't know," and for once, I think he's telling the truth.
We stand in silence for a while, both trying to figure out why the hell my phone has a different password and lockscreen, and why my password would be his birthday. If I had to ever indicate the vaguest moment of my life, it would be this one.

"Hey," the boy starts again, disrupting the silence that had washed over us. I turn my head to look at him, "I have to leave for a photoshoot and a couple of interviews. You'd like to come with, or would you rather stay here?" he asks nicely whilst walking away from me to get his stuff together. He smells his shirt and decides it's a bad idea to wear that one twice.
"I think I might call uncle Rich to help me figure out where my apartment is," I tell him, still in a daze of what had just happened. He stops what he's doing for a second to look at me. He has this look on his face that makes me want to crawl inside that head of his to find out what he's thinking. That look can mean one of two things: one, he's wondering why the hell I wouldn't want to stay here and he's confused for not wanting to. Or two, he's confused because I don't want to stay with him and live this crazy actor life he's living. Either way, he looks quite confused and to be honest, it's a cute look on him. "I'm not going to sit here and rot away all day long, neither am I going to look how you pose for the camera thinking you're the king of I'm-a-hunk-land," I explain to him before he can say anything else. The words repeat themselves in my mind. Did I really just say that? The boy opens his mouth to comment on it, but then shuts it again. Wise idea, O'Brien. Ah, right, there's his name. O'Brien. Dylan. Or was it Brian?
"Alright, fine, call your uncle. But we're going to exchange numbers and you'll be back here tonight, okay?" I raise my eyebrow at him.
"Is that your way of asking me on a date?" I question, "Because, just so you know, I don't date guys like you," now he raises his eyebrow at me. He steps closer towards me until there's nearly no space left and I have to back up before we actually bump into each other.
"And why's that, Queen of I'm-a-bitch-land?" Touché.
"Because I have a dating policy," I tell him whilst trying to hide the fact that I'm very intimidated by him. He tilts his head a little, his eyebrow still raised. "Yeah, I have a policy of not dating guys who are way too busy with themselves to put their energy all in me," I flick my hair over my shoulder and stand on my tippy toes to somewhat have the same height as him, "I'm quite high-maintenance," I whisper to him, glancing at his lips to tease him. I step away from him, the phone still in my hand as I dial uncle Rich's number. I still think it's so weird he's still alive. I actually watched him being buried.
"Wow, how am I going to spend a whole month with you?" I hear Dylan mumble behind me.
"Sorry, what was that?" I ask, turning around. Although I know exactly what he just said, I want to hear him say it to my face.
"Nothing, n-nothing," he stutters before walking into the bathroom to possibly take a shower. I hold the phone against my ear whilst waiting for Rich to pick up his phone.
"Hello," I hear his chipper voice.
"Hey, uncle Rich. It's Lydia," I say back. We talk for a couple minutes to arrange how he's going to get me to my apartment and when we finally get to an agreement, we hang up.
"Alright, give me your phone," Dylan then says before yanking my phone out of my hands. I open my mouth to say something, but then close it again as it is no use to argue with him anyway. I watch him as he enters his phone number in my phone and sends himself a text with just his name. Well, at least now I will remember his name. He hands me my phone back, gives me a small, sarcastic smile and leaves his own flat. I sigh and head towards the kitchen to find some breakfast. I don't think he'd mind if I took something. He probably won't even notice. I have to preoccupy myself until uncle Rich comes to pick me up. I feel so vulnerable here. It's like I don't even know who I am. I don't know the password to my own phone, my uncle is alive, I don't know where my own house is, let alone I knew it was in LA. It's all so confusing and frustrating that I don't remember any of this.
The doorbell to Dylan's flat rings and I'm silently praying it's my uncle. I peek onto the little monitor by the door and when I see the familiar face of my not-deceased uncle, a sigh of relief leaves my body. I grab my handbag and phone before heading out the door, not even bothering about breakfast anymore. I need to find my home. A place I can feel safe in, less vulnerable.