My past is still a part of me

 Kauna's Flashback

As I sit here, my mind wanders back to a time that was marked by chaos and despair - my childhood. Every recollection I have of those early years is a rollercoaster of traumas and tragedies, each of which has left a deep scar on my psyche. Despite the years that have passed since I left that world, the wounds of my past still linger, a constant reminder of the agony I once endured. Yet, I know that to heal, I must confront those memories head-on. It is time to face the pain that I have buried for so long and begin the journey towards closure.

The day that I lost my childhood innocence was March 13, 2014. The memory of that day is etched so deeply in my mind that it will remain with me forever. It started like any other typical Friday morning in Maiduguri, Northern Nigeria. I was getting ready for school with my older sister, Alheri, whose name meant "blessing" in English. She was already dressed in her pleated knee-length brown skirt and cream-sleeve shirt, looking impeccable as always. As a teenager, she took great care of her appearance, and I suspected that there might be a boy she liked. Despite this, she carried herself with such poise and grace that she made our school proud. Little did we know that our lives would change forever that day.

On that fateful day, we were running late for school, and I was frantically searching for my French textbook, which seemed to have vanished into thin air. As the minutes ticked by, my anxiety levels increased, and I felt the weight of my father's disapproval looming over me. He noticed that we were still at home and called out from the living room where he was having breakfast alone, as was his usual routine. 

As the head of the household, my father ate separately from the rest of the family, using matching dishware and cutlery that my sister and I were only allowed to touch during dishwashing time, a chore that we shared responsibility for. By eating alone, my father commanded respect, and his meals were distinct, usually comprising more meat chunks and a larger quantity of soup than ours.

In stark contrast to my father's solitary breakfast routine, my siblings and I used to have our meals together, but it was far from a harmonious experience. Despite our mother's best efforts to maintain peace, mealtimes would often escalate into arguments and fights. Our food was served on a large tray, and we would sit on the floor with a mat spread out in front of us. Each of us had a designated task in preparing for the meal - one person would spread the mat, while another would bring the food. The person who finished eating last was responsible for cleaning up, and unfortunately, that person was usually me. My siblings were experts at tricking me into thinking I had more time to finish my meal than I really did, leaving me to clean up while they went off to play.

I often expressed my grievances to my mother, hoping for her intervention, but she appeared indifferent to our bickering. Perhaps she had grown weary of our constant quarrels or was prepied with her own concerns. However, the dynamics during our mealtimes shifted when my older brother, Samuel, left for boarding school.

 Since he was a year older than my 15-year-old sister Alheri, it fell to me to fill the void his absence had created. At times, I couldn't help but wonder if I was a planned child, given that my sister was four years older than me, and only a year separated her from my brother. They would sometimes tease me, claiming that our family had been perfect before my arrival and that my parents had loved them equally. But with the arrival of another girl child, my sister had to share the spotlight with me, and I couldn't help feeling unloved. Ironically, my parents had named me Kauna, which means "love."

Despite my best efforts, I was still unable to locate my French textbook, causing my sister to become impatient and threatening to leave without me. In the meantime, our father had noticed our delay and began calling out to us, wondering why we were still at home. I pleaded with my sister not to inform him of my mistake, fearing that I would be punished for carelessly losing my book. The thought of my father entering the room to administer discipline was enough to make any child's senses tingle, as it was a common form of punishment in Nigeria.

A loud honking continued outside our house; When it came to getting to school, carpooling with other kids' parents that have a car was the norm for us, My father had a car but, as a man who strongly believed in gender roles, he left the carpooling to the women, it was our neighbours turn to take us to school today, being Friday, she dropped us off and went to the market. 

With no school buses or reliable transportation options available, we had to rely on each other to get to and from school. Although, motorcycles were a common form of public transportation in the area, and most people used them to get around. Some parents even arranged for commercial motorcycle riders to pick up and drop off their children at school.

However, that all changed when motorcycles were banned, The reason given for the ban was that terrorists were using motorcycles for their attacks, and the state of Borno, where we lived, was particularly vulnerable to these attacks. Maiduguri, in particular, had become a hotbed of violence. The ban on motorcycles didn't affect us directly anyway because our father never allowed us to use commercial motorcycles anymore, ever since I burnt my ankle on the cylinder of the motorcycle. 

Nonetheless, In response to this danger, my family and I had to make some adjustments to our daily routines. To keep ourselves safe in an unpredictable and volatile environment, our parents instructed my sibling and me to avoid crowded areas and refrain from playing with friends outside. We diligently informed them of our whereabouts at all times and made it a point to return home by 6 p.m. That being said, with my brother away at boarding school, it seemed as though the rules didn't apply to him.

As my father called out again, now approaching, I felt scared and started to cry. I knew I was going to face either discipline at home from my father or at school from my French teacher. I preferred the latter as it was better for me to be punished by my teacher than my dad. I heard my father's footsteps, and in a panic, I sprinted out of the room. Our neighbour, who we were supposed to carpool with, had already left, her honking was what made my father realize we hadn't left yet. We decided to leave without my textbook which I wasn't so thrilled about but my sister has had enough and we needed to leave. 

With our carpool gone, we had to walk for about 10 minutes to reach the taxi stop. Once there, we would find a taxi, which was usually filled with different people heading to various destinations. The back seat could fit up to five passengers, while the front passenger seat could only fit two, making it 3 people in the front including the driver. Each passenger would pay a different fare depending on their destination, and seatbelts were more of an accessory than a requirement. Most of the taxis didn't even have functioning door handles, so the driver had to open the door from the inside.

Walking towards the taxi stop was a struggle, and my sister was getting frustrated with my slow pace. The sand was turning my white socks brown, and every step felt like a chore. My bag felt heavy, and I was getting tired. However, my sister noticed that I was struggling and came back to help me with my bag. She started to jog, pulling me along with her, and I had to do a little run to catch up to her. We finally reached the taxi stop, both of us out of breath and a little sweaty, but we made it just in time to catch a ride to school.

When we arrived at the taxi stop, we were met with a sea of different taxis, and each driver was calling out a different location. My sister and I scanned the area, looking for a taxi that would take us to our school, which was located on Damboa Road. Finally, a driver called out ''Damboa Road'' and we made our way towards him. My sister handed him a 100 Naira note, and he gave her some change.

 Despite that, he informed us that there was only one seat available, and since I was young, I would have to sit on my sister's lap. Although I wanted to protest and have my own seat, my sister gave me a stern look that made me feel guilty for causing us to be late. I knew that by the time we arrived at school, the general assembly would have already started, and we would have missed vital information from the headmistress.

 During the general assembly, the headmistress would typically address the students and give important information. However, she would also use this time to publicly shame students who hadn't paid their school fees yet, making them feel embarrassed and inadequate, It was not as if it was their fault, it was more of the parent's fault but with most families barely making ends meet and having many children, money was strained as there were not only many mouths to feed but also fees to pay and school supplies to buy not excluding transportation too. 

I dreaded the thought of arriving late fearing the possibility of being singled out and humiliated for arriving late. Nonetheless, we had no other choice but to take the taxi and make our way to school, hoping that we would arrive before it was too late.

As we rode in the taxi, an older woman kept talking to us, My sister appreciated her effort, but she couldn't help feeling anxious about being late for the assembly. I could feel my sister's frustration, as she kept looking at her watch and muttering under her breath. The tension in the air was palpable, I could sense her frustration, but I didn't quite understand the gravity of the situation.

Suddenly, the sound of a loud explosion shook us out of our thoughts. My sister and I looked at each other in shock, our hearts pounding with fear. Before we could even process what was happening, another explosion followed, then another, each one louder than the last. The sound of gunfire rang out in the distance, causing panic and chaos to erupt in the taxi.

Then an explosion went off right in front of us followed by a deafening roar that filled my ears, and I felt my body flinch at the sudden violence. A split second later, I saw it – the source of the commotion. A car bomb had gone off just a few feet away from us, and the shockwave had sent body parts flying in every direction. 

The world was closing in around me, people started screaming and running out of their cars, trying to escape the violence that had engulfed the city. My heart pounding in my chest, with no clear destination in sight, I found myself running too, but no matter how hard I ran, the sounds of destruction and the sight of carnage seemed to follow me.

I realised I was separated from my sister but I needed to keep running. I found myself on a deserted street, with no one in sight. I wondered where all the other people had gone, which direction they had fled in. It was as if the world had been swallowed up by chaos and I was the only one left.

 I started to frantically search for my sister, and the chaos around me intensified. The once-bustling street was now a scene of destruction, with debris and body parts scattered everywhere. The acrid smell of smoke and burning filled my nostrils, and my heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I thought it might burst. My whole body was trembling uncontrollably, and my mind was racing with fear and confusion, In my own terror I had wet myself. This was no longer a distant image on a screen; it was happening to me, and I was utterly terrified.

Suddenly my sister grabbed my hand and we started to run together, As we fled down the street, my sister and I were caught in a wave of panic and confusion. I couldn't tell when I had dropped my bag, I just knew that I had to keep running and only noticed when we stopped. The explosions continued to shake the ground beneath us, and the sound of gunfire rang out in the distance. 

That was when we heard a man's voice, calm and steady, speaking in the Hausa language. He asked us, "What are you doing standing there?" We turned to see an older man sitting on his prayer mat, holding his prayer beads in his hands. My sister broke down, falling to her knees before him and addressing him as "father." She cried out, "Father, what do we do?"

I stood beside her, also in tears. The man told us to come into his house, which was located right in front of where he sat. We didn't need to be told twice, and we quickly made our way inside. The man followed us, and we found ourselves surrounded by women and children. One of the women, who I assumed was one of his wives, protested in Hausa, "Not in this house, I will not take in their kind." Nigeria was faced with many issues such as tribalism, corruption, and violence but one of the ones we were facing right now was religious differences. It was hard for the two dominant religions in Nigeria to get along and in Northern Nigeria, it had resulted in riots, protests and planned killings. 

The man was firm, and he replied in a commanding tone, "If you won't let them stay, then you can leave my house." And just like that, we were taken in by a stranger in the midst of chaos and destruction. I still don't know why he did that or why he was willing to go that far to say that for us, whatever it was human or divine; I owed my life to this man.

As we sat in the man's house, the sounds of explosions and gunshots outside continued unabated, piercing the air with a deafening roar. We sat in silence, my heart pounding in my chest as I tried to make sense of what was happening around us. Suddenly, I felt a vibration on the ground, and a split second later, I could hear it coming from above. The piercing sound of a Nigerian Airforce fighter jet filled the air, cutting through the sky like a hot knife through butter. It was a sound that filled me with dread, but at the same time, I knew that with the military now watching from above, our situation had changed.

As a 12-year-old, I had never sat still in one place for so long. My mother would often admonish my sister and me for running around and urge us to sit down and be still. In retrospect, I couldn't help but wonder if she had a premonition that something like this might happen one day, and was trying to prepare us for it. It was an eerie thought, but in that moment, it gave me a sense of comfort and strength to know that I had a mother who loved me and was always looking out for me.

We sat huddled together on the floor of the man's house, our hearts pounding with fear and anxiety. The sounds of explosions and gunshots had finally subsided, but the occasional distant gunshot kept us on edge. Time seemed to stand still as we waited for any sign of safety or news from the outside world.

As the minutes ticked by, our desperation grew. It felt like an eternity had passed since we had heard anything from our parents. We were completely cut off from the rest of the world, and the uncertainty of our situation was overwhelming.

Suddenly, the old man entered the room, his eyes darting nervously around the space. He approached my sister and asked if she knew our parents' phone number. We all held our breath as he explained that the situation had calmed down, and the sporadic gunshots we were hearing were from vigilantes and the military.

My sister nodded her head, her hands shaking as she dialled our father's phone number into the man's phone, a Nokia 3310. I could hear the loud and annoying ringtone echoing through the small room anytime he received a phone call. as we waited with bated breath for our father to answer. The tension in the air was palpable as we hoped for a response, a sign that our nightmare would soon come to an end.

Our father finally picked up the call, As my sister spoke to him, tears streamed down her face as she expressed how scared we were and how uncertain we felt about the situation. Our father's voice was calming as he reassured us to remain calm and not worry, promising to come and get us. Eventually, after a conversation between our father and the man, the man agreed to take us to an agreed-upon meeting point where our father would collect us.

We then hopped into the man's car, I sat in the middle at the back, and my sister sat in the passenger seat, while the man drove us forward. The wind rushed against my face, my eyes watered, and tears kept rolling down my cheeks. I couldn't help but blame the wind for making me cry.

We sat there quietly for what felt like an eternity. I was starting to feel hungry and thirsty, but I didn't dare ask for anything. I just sat there, thinking about how lucky we were to have found that man. What if we hadn't? Where would we be? Would we even be alive?

The roads were deserted, and I felt just as empty as the streets. The man slowed down as we approached a roadblock where a group of teenagers, armed with handmade weapons, stood; both males and females, were visibly agitated, chanting to themselves. The apparent leader of the group questioned the man about our destination. The man replied that he was taking us home. The leader motioned for some of the group to approach us, and in no time, one person hopped on the hood of the car while another rode on the back. The leader instructed us to proceed, assuring us that they would escort us safely to our destination.

As we drove along, I couldn't help but sneak glances at the object the person riding on the back of the car held. It was a long wooden handle with sharp, broken pieces of what looked like knife blades attached to it. The weapon looked dangerous, and the person waved it around as we continued on our journey.

Finally, we reached our destination, and I spotted my father's white 404 Peugeot parked under a tree. My father was standing outside the car with another man, who turned out to be my uncle; Uncle Musa. They had come to pick us up together. I was relieved that my mother wasn't there, as she tended to panic easily, and her presence might have made things more difficult. As we stepped out of the car, my father and the older man exchanged pleasantries and gratitude. My father then approached us, and to my surprise, he reached out and hugged us, something he rarely did. I thought I saw a tear glistening in his eye as he held us close, I held onto my father, I felt safe now that he was here.

I was overwhelmed with relief to be home, the look on my mother's face said it all - she was scared and relieved at the same time. She must have gone through an emotional roller coaster. But it was all over now, and it was good to be back in her warm embrace. My mother immediately started asking me what I wanted to eat, I was shocked, everyone seemed to be doing things they never done before, my father hugging us and now she giving me an option to decide what I wanted to eat, It felt strange but I like it, I wished they could be like this every day. With a loud burst of excitement, I shouted, "Indomie!" I loved eating the instant noodles. My brother used to sneak it into the house whenever he was back from boarding school and cook it for us. My mother always said, "While you're eating the instant noodles, it's also eating you." It took me a while to realize that she didn't mean it literally.

As I sat alone enjoying my cooked Indomie and boiled egg, I completely forgot about the experience and the events that had happened earlier. However, I couldn't help but overhear my parents talking about the carpool situation from the morning. Apparently, the lady we were supposed to carpool with had gotten into an accident while trying to evade the insurgency, her car had flipped over and was crushed by a truck that was also trying to change routes, they all died at the spot, it was a very chilling story but I kept on eating my food.

Ring ring, the piercing sound of my father's phone echoed through the living room. He sat in his armchair, his face unreadable as my mother sat beside him, peeling oranges. I salivated at the thought of the sweet fruit, but my attention was quickly diverted as my father answered the call.

I couldn't hear the voice on the other end, but my father's silence spoke volumes. Slowly, he hung up the phone, his eyes filled with an indescribable horror. My mother's eyes widened in fear as she pleaded with him to reveal what had just transpired.

He hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn't find the words. Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling with anguish. "It was the school guardian," he said. "Samuel... he's been shot."

My older brother was considered the golden child in our family. My parents were very proud of his academic achievements. However, ever since he started going to boarding school, he seemed less interested in his studies and more focused on other activities. He would often sneak out of school with other kids to go swimming in a river that flowed through our town. This river was very popular as it flowed under the bridge that connects to the main parts of the city, and we often crossed the bridge on our way to school.

My father's words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. A gut-wrenching cry escaped my mother's lips as she clung to my father's arms, pleading with him to tell her it wasn't true. But there was no denying the painful truth. Our beloved Samuel was gone, apparently, he had snuck out of school with his friends to go for an early morning swim and unfortunately, he got killed by a stray bullet which went through his head.

I stumbled back, the weight of the news crushing me, I made my way to my sister's room. But as I woke her, she yelled at me to please leave her alone, ''can't you see I'm trying to sleep'' she responded. 

"It's Sammy," I said, my voice cracking with emotion. "He's dead."

I stood there, staring at my sister, feeling helpless and lost. I had expected her to react in some way, to feel the same pain that I was feeling, but she just covered her head with the blanket, as if trying to escape from the world.

Confused by her action, I decided to leave the room, as I turned to leave the room, I heard a faint sound coming from beneath the covers. At first, I wasn't sure what it was, but as I listened closely, I realized that my sister was crying. It was a soft, muffled sound, it broke my heart the more. Without thinking, I rushed back to her side, crawling onto the bed beside her. 

We both lay there, wrapped in silence, our tears mingling together as we mourned the loss of our brother. As I lay there, tears streaming down my face, my sister's cry the only sound in the room, I couldn't help but notice the clutter surrounding us; Piles of boxes, old clothes and then, as if the universe were playing some cruel joke on me, I saw something peeking out from under one of the boxes. I got up and pulled it out, it was my French textbook.

 Kauna's Present

It's been years since I moved to the UK and My life here was a complete contrast to my life in Nigeria. Every step I took seemed to be infused with the promise of a new, exciting adventure.

As I prepared for my interview at one of the entry-level jobs I had applied to, I couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension creeping over me. The mere thought of the upcoming interview consumed me with nervousness, as I knew this was a significant opportunity that could potentially shape my career. The company I had applied to was Davenport and Sons, a top-tier firm known for their extensive reach across various industries. They were involved in everything, from Hospitality, and finance to technology, and had an impressive track record of success.

Graduating from university was a major accomplishment, but this job opportunity could be the beginning of a promising career.

 I inhale deeply and tried to calm my nerves. I had to remind myself of all the hard work I've put in, the long nights spent studying, and the sacrifices I've made to get to this point. I knew I was qualified for the position, but there's still a small voice of doubt in my head, asking me if I was good enough. I take another big breath and continued to get dressed.

Choice of clothing; A fitted jacket, a white silk shirt, and a knee-length black skirt that hugs my curves in all the right places and highlights my hourglass form making up my professional yet elegant attire. My already statuesque body is given height by the modest yet stylish heels I was wearing. "Light makeup is always my go-to, enhancing my natural beauty with effortless grace. I meticulously apply my powder, my features become even more striking, accentuated by the soft brush of the applicator against my skin. A cloud of powder settles around me, adding a subtle hint of allure to the air. I couldn't help but cough at the excess, chuckling to myself as I wondered if I've gone overboard with the powder.

I reached for my favourite shade of lipstick, the colour intense and bold, and begins to apply it with precision. As the deep red pigment spreads over my lips, they seem to come alive, drawing attention to my sultry pout against the backdrop of my caramel skin. I couldn't help but smile to myself as I admired the striking contrast of the red against my complexion, the embodiment of confidence and allure.

With steady hands, I applied a delicate yet striking black eyeliner along the curve of my upper eyelid, framing my dark eyes with a sultry hint of mystery. The lines are impeccable, emphasizing the natural curves of my eyes and adding a touch of elegance to my overall look.

As I take a step back to admire myself in the mirror, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. I remembered the old saying, "be bold or be nothing," and took it to heart. I know that first impressions are everything, and I was determined to make a lasting one. Suddenly, the alarm goes off, jarring me from my reverie. "Oh no," I muttered to myself, "can't be late. First impressions are a lasting impression." I gathered my things, my CV, portfolio, handbag and walked out the door looking flawlessly prepared to present my skills and abilities in my impending interview. I took a deep breath, and stepped out into the world, ready to conquer her interview and leave an unforgettable impression. 

I arrived at the interview location, just in the nick of time, after rushing in a taxi through the busy streets of the city. I paid the driver, took a deep breath to compose myself, and jet off towards the front desk. With a smile and a polite greeting, I signed in and was given a number - 205.

The place is packed with people, all waiting anxiously for their turn to be called in for their interview. I looked around, taking in the sea of faces, and realizes that it might take a while before my number was called. I can feel my nerves creeping back in, threatening to sabotage my confidence.

Took a seat and tried to distract myself with a magazine, but my mind kept wandering back to the interview. I could feel the weight of the moment bearing down on me, and I knew that I needed to stay focused and calm. But my palms were sweaty, and my heart was racing. I realized that I needed to do something to calm myself down.

I excused myself from the waiting area and heads towards the restroom. Once inside, I splash some cold water on my face, hoping that it will help refresh me. Looking in the mirror, taking deep breaths and repeating positive affirmations to myself.

As I finished washing my hands, I noticed a faint light coming from the stairs leading up to the rooftop. A door was slightly ajar, and the light was spilling out onto the landing. I felt drawn to the light, curious about what might be up there.

I decided to follow the light, my curiosity getting the better of me. I climbed the stairs, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the concrete walls. I pushed open the door, and the brightness of the sunlight momentarily blinds me. As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize that was standing on the rooftop. The view is breathtaking, with the city stretching out before me in all directions. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and the wind blowing through my hair in this lovely June summer weather.

For a moment, I forgot all about the interview and the pressure that came with it. I felt free and alive, caught up in the beauty of the moment. I took a deep breath, feeling grateful for the unexpected detour that led me here. As I took in the stunning view from the rooftop, I noticed the intricate details of the city below. The towering skyscrapers, the bustling streets, and the seemingly endless flow of people and traffic. I was lost in the moment, the beauty of the city captivating my senses. Suddenly, I observed the man standing a few steps away from me as I enjoyed the breath-taking view from the rooftop. He has thick, curly hair, probably mid 20s, and cheekbones that are clearly defined. He is around 6 feet tall, well-built, with a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, hugging his broad chest. I took a closer look at him and noticed that his skin was sun-bronzed, with a warm olive tone that was hard to miss. His features are chiselled and sharp, but his expression is soft, almost gentle. As he turns to face me, he glides his hands through his hair, ruffling it slightly. I could see the playfulness in his eyes, and I felt myself drawn to him even more.

As I stood next to him with my heart racing from the adrenaline of the moment, I could feel the tension between us building. "You're not thinking of jumping, are you?" I asked, with hint of amusement in my voice. "I know the interviews can be hectic, but it's not worth losing yourself,'' I added. He looked at me, he appeared to be surprised by my words but I could see the smile playing on his lips. I felt a warmth spreading through my chest as I noted how his sun-bronzed skin that appeared to shimmer in the sunlight as he cast a glance out towards the city to take in the scene. My eyes remained fixed on him; His olive skin, gently sculpted cheekbones, and thick, curling hair. Suddenly, he speaks with intensity in his eyes. "No, I'm not," he whispers, his voice husky. "Just enjoying the view." I couldn't tell if he's referring to the cityscape or me. I felt his eyes searching my face, feeling his gaze on me, I wondered what he was thinking. 

With a cheerful grin on my face, I confidently introduced myself to the man standing in front of me, "By the way, I'm Kauna, number 205." However, instead of returning my smile, his face was etched with confusion, and it was clear that he didn't quite understand what I had just said. Not wanting to leave him bewildered, I quickly reached for my name tag, which was hanging around my neck, and pulled it out to reveal my full name, Kauna Numan, and my assigned number, 205.

Holding up the tag, I maintained my bright smile, patiently waiting for him to process the information. He looked intently at my name tag, his eyes tracing the letters of my name, and then he softly whispered, "Kauna" At that moment, a jovial smirk appeared on his face, indicating that he had finally comprehended my introduction and how to say my name.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that the awkwardness had passed, and that we could now continue our conversation with ease. As we chatted, I couldn't help but notice how his eyes kept darting towards my name tag, almost as if he was committing my name and number to memory. 

I wanted the conversation to continue, so I added ''In my opinion, these interviews seem futile since the hiring decision likely has been made beforehand. We've already undergone an assessment and a virtual interview, and now, with this second interview, it seems redundant. It would be best to make a final decision instead of giving people false hope of employment''.

Out of nowhere, a strong gust of wind caught me off guard, causing me to lose my footing and stumble forward. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, but before I could hit the ground, his strong and well-defined arms immediately wrapped around my waist, preventing me from falling. The sensation of his firm embrace was reassuring, and I couldn't help but notice the way his muscles tensed beneath his shirt, the sleeves now rolled up to his elbows.

As I steadied myself, I found myself drawn to him. The contrast of his olive-toned skin against the white fabric of his shirt was mesmerizing, and his sun-kissed complexion was a testament to the time he must have spent outdoors. I couldn't help but glance at his thick, curly hair, which bounced in the wind, the strands framing his chiselled cheekbones. It was clear that he took care of himself, and I couldn't help but admire the way his hair moved effortlessly in the wind.

He held me in his arms, I felt his warmth and caught a whiff of his intoxicating scent, which I couldn't quite place but found incredibly alluring. It was a moment of pure connection, and I couldn't help but feel a flutter in my heart as he lifted me back up onto my feet.

Despite feeling a little embarrassed by the situation, I couldn't help but feel grateful for his strength and reassurance. It took me a moment to steady myself, still feeling a little dazed from the sudden gust of wind. As I looked up at him, I couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity, as if we had met before. It was a feeling that left me wanting to know more about this intriguing and handsome stranger.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his warm and soothing voice offering comfort to my frazzled nerves. His concern was evident, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of connection between us. I nodded, still feeling a bit shaken by the sudden gust of wind. "Yeah...thanks," I replied in a low tone, trying to steady my breathing.

 I tried to compose myself, he gently brushed a strand of hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ear, his reassuring smile easing some of my anxiety. "I'm Drew Davenport, by the way," he introduced himself, his voice friendly and genuine.

As I processed his introduction, my mind raced with recognition. Drew Davenport, as in the Drew Davenport of Davenport and Sons? My initial shock and excitement were quickly replaced by embarrassment as I realized my mistake. "You're the son...I mean, one of the sons?" I stumbled over my words, trying to backtrack and save face. "I was just venting, probably just my opinion on the process. Of course, there must be a reason for going through all that. I mean, I'm in complete embarrassment now," I rambled, my words not making much sense at all.

The weight of embarrassment bore down on me, and I knew I needed to leave. I rushed down the stairs, feeling the eyes of the receptionist on me. As I reached the front desk, I took off the interview tag and handed it back, knowing that there was no point in holding onto it now. My confidence shattered, I felt defeated, believing that I had blown my chance for the job.

The world seemed to be closing in around me, and I couldn't shake off the feeling of failure. It was a dark and heavy moment, and I wished I could disappear.