Page 48 of The Bodyguard Proposal

So there is some relief, but I can’t help but still stay in the background.

Except, now that is changing.

When I get famous, my life’s intensity is going to explode.

I said yes to trying out acting.

So London truly is my escape valve before everyone knows me. Not as Shreya Chahal’s daughter, but as Komal Chahal — the actress.

Famous herself.

The countdown is on.

I want to load myself with memories I won’t get again. I want to wander in a city where no one knows me. Ride the tube. Make more new friends. Be dishevelled in the best possible way.

Pound heart, pound.

Find what skitters excitement down our spine while we can.

Less than two weeks left now.

For the next few days,Huan and I are robustly normal as I tick experiences off like falling dominoes. We sit separately atop the double-decker bus (Route 15, internet-recommended for “seeing the famous shit”) going through Trafalgar Square, around Aldwych, past the Royal Courts of Justice, through Ludgate Circus and ending at St. Paul’s.

Sitting at the top—especially if you get the front seat—feels like you’re supernaturally lofting through the city like a queen on her throne. Excitement and thrills galore. And Ialmostdon’t notice the thickness between Huan and me. We look outside and never at each other. We are like cups filled to the brim that can’t be jostled in the wrong direction.

Yet, I still feel him. I’m aware of his solidity and know if he moves too far or too close.

Too close and my nerves flare up.

Too far and… we both adjust to be closer again.

One of the days I mean to go to a play, but that’s before I find St. Bride Library in Blackfriars. In that Victorian building, I feel like I can stay forever. Originally set up for print and publishing trade for nearby Fleet Street, it’s now open to the public. You can tour the workshop and view items from their special collection, like images of The Times, The Newcastle Chronicle and The Liverpool Courier from the 1800s, and also, like 8000 artefacts covering all aspects of typography and graphic design.

It isn’t thewildadventuringI’ve got in mind for London, but as soon as I go through one book, my fingers wander to another, even though I keep telling myself it’s the last one.

Satisfied the library is safe enough for us to separate, Huan wanders. Though, despite being lost in the books, I realize that when a new one appears beside me, he’s finding ones I might like.

Somehow, he knows I like pamphlets that show typeface designs and their uses. On yellowed paper, they give me this feeling that whatever people were doing back then is also what people try to do today. Artists separated by centuries inventing fonts. It feels… reassuring.

At some point, Huan and I sit beside each other. Looking at old artefacts, funny words are bound to come up. I see Huan double-tapMiscreanton a page in front of him.

I findHomeric Hermiton my page.

He flips to a heading ofFacinorousscrawled in bold type.

Three random occurrences and we’re playing a game without explaining any rules. This is talking without talking. Real quiet won’t exist between us. I read him. He reads me. Of course, I compete with my teeth out while he plays with lazy leisure.

What a panther, I think. He keeps measuring my reactions as if collecting data. Whenever I get miffed at being outshone by one of his word selections, his mouth curves.

If I could truly speak my mind, I would say,Just wait, I’ll annihilate all your confidence and spread your arrogance thin like butter! Watch me win so hard that loss imprints your very soul! Scribes will sing the story of your defeat! Might as well go ahead and start building some damn statues. You’ll need to put them up in the middle of all the villages as tribute, peasant.

I’m not intense.

I find a word that beats his last one. Then he triumphs my creativity again. As I glare, Huan blinks innocently, and then to my shock, mouths,Let it out.

His dare triggers a soft grumbling noise I’ve never released in public.

Barbaric.

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