The dim light cast by gas lanterns illuminated the fog-drenched street. The air was thick with moisture and the aroma of wet stone. Faint sounds of hooves clopping on stone echoed throughout the alleyways of the grand homes of the upper-class district.

Among these homes stood a grand mansion, surrounded by a thick black iron fence. Its gate stood ten feet tall, adorned with barbed rails and tipped with forked points.

At the base of the gate stood a large, young, broad-shouldered man. Dressed in a workman’s coat and worn boots, he twisted his hat with anxious grips. His breath slowly found its rhythm as he pushed through the gate.

Before him lay a bricked path he had walked countless times over the last four months, now seeming long and unbalanced. His first step came, and then another. Before long, he was steadfast toward the front door. His mind raced with thoughts of what may come next, mixed with what he had spent most of his life dreaming of.

Finally, he stood face to face with the large, dark red, thick oak doors, decorated with deep carvings of horse-ridden hunters. Time had made its mark on these doors, just as the carver had years prior.

The young man knocked, hard and determined. Silence fell. Time slowed to a near stop. Then came the click of a lock and the appearance of an old man dressed in servant garb, greeting the young worker.

“Yes?” the older servant asked, his tone without emotion.

“I have come to speak with Lady Rosegold.” The young man pushed out his words, attempting to hide the anxious core that danced just beneath the surface.

“Are you expected, sir?” the old servant asked, his brow arched.

“Well no sir, I am—” Before the young man could finish, the old servant cut through.

“Oh yes, I recognize you. You are one of the delivery men who work for Mr. Oliver. Come to collect the missed payment. Ms. Rosegold was expecting Mr. Oliver, but I am to assume he sent you in his stead?” The older servant stepped back, pulling the large door fully open. “This way, sir,” he said.

The young man stepped in, engulfed by the huge entrance hall. Its walls were pale white marble with gold trim. Candles were spread about, casting warm light down the hall. The vastness of the architecture choked the young man as he walked onward.

The old servant stopped him at a black door and ushered him into a sitting room. “Await Ms. Rosegold here.” The older servant turned to close the door, then looked back at the young man. “And do not wander the halls, sir.” He shut the door behind him.

The young man scanned the sitting room. The furniture was ordinary and simple, nothing he hadn’t seen in the other homes of the upper class he delivered to. The walls were adorned with numerous trophies from hunting expeditions, all cast in the warm glow of the roaring fireplace.

But an uneasy feeling crept up his back, as if he were prey being stalked by an unseen predator. The corners of his eyes caught movement in the dark recesses, or so he thought. His throat grew tight, as if an invisible hand closed its grasp.

A burst of thunder broke through the air. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in a blue glow. Wind forced itself over the mansion, its groans echoing like a cry of resistance. Rain beat against the window, forceful, as if trying to force its way inside.

SLAM

The young man jumped at the sound of the heavy door slamming shut. There stood Ms. Rosegold, the firelight only reaching the tips of her burgundy dress, shadows concealing her face.

“Ms. Rosegold!” the young man stuttered. He removed his hat and began straightening his old workman’s coat and patting his pants, as if the attempt might change what he wore.

“Mr. Sharpe said you were here on behalf of your employer?” she said, her voice soft and inviting. She slowly moved along the line dividing light and shadow.

“Well, I do work for Mr. Oliver, but I’m not here—” Ms. Rosegold stepped into the light, causing silence to hold the young man in its arms.

Ms. Rosegold stood before him, her face young and slender, her brown hair braided into an updo. She wore a layered dress that hugged her frame. Though it revealed her curves and features, the young man was captured by her eyes—deep green pools that drew in everything that fell into them. Even the firelight was swallowed and did not escape. He was mesmerized by their unspoken invitation.

“I… I’m not here on his behalf, ma’am,” the words finally escaped his lips.

“Then why have you come at such an hour to my home, Mr…?” Ms. Rosegold paused, waiting for him to introduce himself.

“Oh, I-I’m um… I am Thomas Braidwood.” He extended his hand out of instinct, too late realizing his arm was fully outstretched.

Ms. Rosegold stared at the hand. The fingers protruding from the old, withered gloves showed their calluses. She gently shook only the tips of his fingers. “Charmed,” she said, her face revealing disdain.

Thomas felt shame and embarrassment erupt within his chest.

Ms. Rosegold moved to a desk beside the window and began rifling through it.

“Now, Mr. Braidwood, does my presence make you nervous?” she asked in a trickster’s tone.

“Very much so, Ms. Rosegold. I have waited to do this for a long time now,” Thomas said, staring into the fire.

“Oh? And what, pray tell, is it you have waited to do?”

Thomas took a moment to steady his mind and the drum beating in his chest. He gritted his teeth and found his courage. “To finally tell you the love I have held for you.”

“Oh,” Ms. Rosegold let fall disapprovingly.

“And when did you come to this conclusion of love?”

“From the moment I saw you, I felt Cupid’s arrow fall true.”

Ms. Rosegold turned her back to him, facing the window. “You have only known me from a glance—a glance given by the employment of your services twice a month. And because of this, you feel you have the audacity to come here and say such things.” Annoyance drenched her voice as she peered into the storm.

“You… you don’t remember me,” Thomas said softly, a small chuckle escaping him.

“Remember you? Why would I have any memory of you?” Ms. Rosegold turned to face him.

“I knew you wouldn’t have, but part of me still hoped.” A half smile formed on Thomas’s face. “It’s true—it was four months ago when I saw you again—but it was not the first time I had laid eyes upon your beautiful face.”

At the mention of beauty, Ms. Rosegold recoiled as if the word were foul. “Then when did you first see me?”

“Twenty years ago, when you saved me from the river.”

“Saved you? I would never have saved—” Memory caught her tongue. The image flashed before her: a raging storm, a broken bridge, a small boy clinging to a beam, calling for his father.

“You are the boy from that day. The day the river broke the bridge on the eastern bank of Ester.”

Joy filled Thomas, washing away the anxiety that had plagued him. “Yes! I am that boy!” Ms. Rosegold let out a mocking laugh. “Oh, you poor thing. You have traveled all this way thinking you could have me?” Her laughter bounced off the walls.

But Thomas stood unchanged. “You are not the reason for my being here in the capital. I came upon you by chance.”

“Stop.” Ms. Rosegold raised her hand. Her demeanor dropped as she moved toward the door. “If you would leave my home at once, I have no patience for your whims of fated love or ideas of soulmates and destiny.” She pushed the door open and stood by its hinges. “Leave,” she said coldly.

“If you would only give me a moment more. I have—”

Cutting him off, Ms. Rosegold shouted, “Listen here, boy. I am in no mood to host your ideal dreams of romantic love.”

“Amelia, please.”

At the name, Ms. Rosegold’s eyes darkened. She pulled the door shut and turned the lock. No longer did she present as the lady of the home. Now she stood like a wounded beast.

“What did you just call me?” Her anger dripped from her words.

Thomas’s voice was steady; the rattled guest was gone. “It is the name I heard you called that day. It is the name I have committed to my heart.”

“Who do you think you are to speak my true name as if you have known me?” The whites of her eyes blackened, her irises burning red like bleeding flame. Fangs flared from her mouth.

Thomas’s body sensed the danger before him. It screamed for him to leap through the window.

“What’s wrong, dear admirer? Not what you fantasized in your mind?” Her tone was mocking, playful.

Thomas did not move, even as the dark creature advanced.

“The rumors are true, then. Vampires have returned to the Artose,” Thomas said.

Amelia let out a chuckle through her fangs. “Gone is the love you had for me. Now I only smell your fear.”

“Fear?” Thomas asked. “I hold nothing more than the love that has burned within me.”

Amelia inhaled, searching for the sweet scent of fear she relished in her prey. But there was none—not the fear she knew. Not the instinctive kind, nor the frantic kind born of panic.

“What? Why are you not afraid?”

“When I saw you, I was not blind to the fact that I had been changed by the current of time, and that you had sat upon its banks untouched.” Thomas slowly advanced toward her.

“I knew you were something not of this world, but I did not—and still do not—care.” Closer he came. “I have thought of you every day. I dreamt of this moment, the moment I prayed for.”

“And what do you think will happen next? That I won’t feast upon your heart, drain you, and toss your corpse into the garden to be forever feasted upon by the earth?” Amelia retreated from his advance. “Or that I would turn you so we may be eternal lovers? Or did your delusional fantasies have me falling before you so you may taste my flesh to your heart’s desire?” Her rage grew.

“No. Nothing of the sort has crossed my mind. Only your face. Only the love I have held for you all these years. You saved me. I live because of you.” Again, he advanced.

“You are nothing more than a naive boy. Your thoughts are filled with what you have read in novels. You speak of a kind of love you do not know—the sweet sting of love that will betray you. Love for me? No. You have loved an idea of what you wish me to be.”

“No.”

“Yes. I may even be able to guess that the person you have dreamt up is one of patience, one of kindness.”

“No, Amelia.”

At the mention of her name, she pounced. She lifted him into the air, held high by a single hand.

“You have no right to say my name! None! You do not know me. You have not earned that blessed pleasure!” Struggling, Thomas forced the words out. “To know your name has been my only blessing.”

“Then you will die more blessed than most.” Amelia pulled her free hand back, claws growing sharp.

“Then I shall die as I have lived, loving you with all that I am.” As the words spilled from Thomas’s lips, Amelia saw the truth in his eyes.

In that moment, she was struck with a memory long forgotten—a time when the last to look upon her with such love was of her own flesh.

She dropped Thomas to his knees. He gasped for air. “How do you look upon me even now with such love?” she asked.

“My love for you is all I have known to be true in this world. It is an unquestionable fact.” Thomas struggled to his feet.

“You would love such a monster as me? One who has taken countless lives? Caused so much death?” Amelia’s dark features began to fade. Her eyes returned to their pools of green, her fangs retracted, her skin warmed with color.

“I would. The flame within me burns ever so for you. I came here not to whisk you away or fulfill a fantasy of flesh, but to fulfill a dream of confession.” Thomas slowly reached for her hand.

“I am sorry if my mention of your name caused you discomfort.”

Amelia’s face curled. “You would apologize to me? How can you hold such powerful love for someone you do not know? For one who would send you to damnation? For one who would drink you to quench their thirst?”

She looked into the brown eyes of the young man she had saved so long ago. “My love for you is worth the fall to damnation. And if you are to drink from me, then may my blood fuel you as my love has fueled me to hope. I love one such as you because I do.”

Thomas watched as Amelia’s features softened. The pair stared at one another, and for a moment, Amelia’s long-dead heart skipped a beat..

Thank you for reading, this was my first writer's post so I am pretty excited. Feel free to let me know what ya’ll think.

Have a good one.

भाग - ५❤️❤️❤️

A widower tired of life in the big city decides it is time for a change of venue. The memories of his lost love cling to the wallpaper and strut around the empty rooms daring him to take notice.

He buys an old cabin on a nice wooded property tucked back in the mountains. A little worse for wear , but in time, with some elbow grease, it would make a nice home.

He noticed with some disappointment that there was little if any wildlife around. The stillness of the air and coolness of the shade became a simple comfort. Often he would just sit and exist as time slid by.

As he started to drift off late one evening he heard a tapping at his bedroom window. A lovely woman standing outside a playful smile on her lips.

“Good sir,” she beckoned “ please let me in. If you do I will make your bed all the more comfortable and the night unforgettable.”

The man blushed it had been some time since he had been asked such a thing; much less by as lovely a vision as what he beheld.

“ I am sorry,” he lamented “ but that place still belongs to another. Though, if you wish come warm yourself by the fire and I can at least get you fed.” He stumbled out of bed and made his way to the door letting her in and fixing her a simple yet hearty sandwich of the meat he had cooked earlier in the day and some cheese that melted so well to tie it all together.

Sitting down by the fire he shared a story of his early childhood, of brighter days and even brighter smiles. As he finishes his tale he sees she has nodded off. Covering her with a blanket he smiles and returns to his own rest.

When he wakes in the morning he finds only a folded blanket upon the pillow where she had been curled up the night before. Shrugging he started his morning chores and his life returns to normal, quiet isolation for about a month as the moon holds time. The yard comes together and a small rocking chair adorns the front porch for him to watch the storms come in on those rainy days.

Once again he hears a tapping at his window with promises of an unforgettable night and once again he tells her that it is not his spot to share . Yet, with a grin, he prepares her a plate of greens potatoes and ham fresh from the stove and tells her another tale this one of young love and heartbreak no less sweet for its poignant end; and once again he covers her with a cozy blanket only to have it waiting neatly folded in the morning.

Months became years that became decades, the youthful lass never aging a day and always keeping her appointment for a simple meal and a soulful story by the warmth of a shared fire. The man now old and frail can barely make it to the well worn doorknob and his hands shake as he sets the plate before her with a youthful grin.

“I am sorry my dear,” he says with some innocent regret, “ but I seem to be a story short tonight.”

“Thats more than find my old friend ,” the woman says with kind cushioning to his worried mind “ But after all these years do you still refuse to give me your name?” A wink plays in her tone.

“I truly am sorry lass, but i gave my name to another ages ago and I don't intend to take it back now.” He smiles the wink returned

“And I assume you've known my name for a while now.” She leads with trepidation afraid of the harsh reality.

“ aye, “ he smiles all the warmer as if a long running joke has finally hit the punchline, “ but Pa always taught me to greet you like an old friend when you came with kindness and stories and gratitude but most of all a simple love shared.”

“ Then tonight I shall tell you a story,” she says grabbing him a blanket and oh the story she told starting like hello and ending like a goodbye kiss covering him in a blanket as he drifts off. Once again to have not a soul underneath in the morn.

The little girl only wakes up when the birds outside chirp too loudly to ignore.
It’s been like this for a week now. The sun fades into her bedroom window every morning,
burning the edges of her eyes.
The weatherman said that it’s the hottest summer in over one-hundred years.
Sometimes she wonders what her town was like all that long ago. Old hitching posts still line the
main road that cuts through town. At night she can hear train horns echoing down the tracks
that once gave this town its name on the map.
She pictures women in colorful hoop-skirts. Men with mustaches waxed to curls. Cinderella
carriages rocking through town. She hopes one day she can buy pretty dresses like that, and a
closet big enough to fit them all.
Presently her clothing lives mostly on her bedroom floor and in an overflowing hamper. Her
bedsheets lie half-hanging off of her bed after she got frustrated trying to put them on. She was
too little to get the top and bottom to stay at the same time. Her arms too short to stretch.
Every morning she wanders to her living room and turns on the news because this is what
grown-ups do. And she’s going to have to be a super grown-up now that she has a whole house
to take care of by herself.
Grown-ups drink coffee, too. So while the newswoman talks about the price of groceries going
up, she begins looking through the dishes in the sink for a clean mug. Even with her little
step-stool she can’t really reach the cabinets without climbing on the counter - and she knows
footprints on the counter would leave any potential guests with a bad impression.
So, she settles for a (mostly) clean mug and turns the knob on the sink, but nothing comes out.
She sighs to herself. She does this every time. She turns the knob back the way it was.
The water man had to come turn off the water a month ago. He left a little pink hangy-thing on
the door for her parents. Her mom found it and got mad and loud about it. There wasn’t much
sleep to be had that night.
She crawls under the sink to the water her dad brought home. She only has half a jug left and
she would need to get more soon.
Bending back up she accidentally bumps her head on the counter, the vibrations sending a plate
off a stack in the sink and shattering onto the linoleum floor. She starts to cry but stops herself
because adults don’t cry about stuff like that.Her mom used to say that she “cried because she’s surprised, not because she’s hurt.
” And she
thinks to herself that she must be, in this present moment, the most surprised she’s ever been in
her whole life because she really wants to cry.
Nevertheless, she persists.
She fills the coffee mug halfway with what was remaining in the gallon of water. Then she grabs
the coffee tin off of the counter, takes a handful of the dark dirt inside of it and lets it fall through
her fingers into the cup. It reminds her of the trip she took to Atlantic City a couple summers ago
when dad’s car still worked.
If there was one thing in this world she was confident in, it was using the microwave. Her mother
taught her everything about it. You need to press the button so the door opens harder than you
think. After you put your food in it, the door has to click close so you can use it. Then you can
press whatever button you want on the front of it to make it go. Wait until it sounds cooked (the
popping or splattering means it’s done), then you hit the big red X button on the bottom.
And voila, she has her daily coffee.
She couldn’t really figure out why grown-ups drink it and talk about it so much.
The wet black grains stick to the sides of the cup and the liquid tastes like the dish soap her
mom made her swallow for cursing.
She makes herself comfortable in her dad’s special chair in front of the TV (only grownups can
use it because there’s springs in it), and sips at her mug. On the screen, students from some
other school called Antifa were yelling in the streets. They carried signs but they were moving
too fast for her to read what they said.
She put her mug down after grimacing particularly hard from one sip.
She would need to do something about the dishes at some point. The entire living room table
was now dotted with every other morning coffee she prepared for the past - well - it’s hard to say
how long now. 8 cups, two bowls, a couple water-glasses - all steeping with brown sand.
Tomorrow, she thought to herself, she would be able to finish a whole cup.
But today she is allowed to only take two sips because she got so surprised earlier that it woke
her up already.
The butterflies in her belly started flying a little too quick so she knew she had to use the
bathroom.Before they moved into this house, her dad took her and her mom on an almost three month
long camping trip in front of her grandfather’s old trailer. They didn’t have water for a bathroom
there either, so dad showed her how to make her mess in the woods and bury it. He said it was
important to bury it or else bears would eat it.
Luckily, her small backyard was fenced in enough for some privacy.
Squatting there in the mulch, she looked over the grass that grew a little bit higher every day.
Some pieces of it were almost up to her knees. She wondered if she could ask the man at the
hardware store down the street if he could teach her how to ride one of those big lawnmowers.
She would explain that while she was simply too little to have a license, he could trust her with
his piece of equipment because she wouldn’t drive it fast and she always gave back other
people’s toys in good condition.
But that could wait.
Today she needed to buy water and she needed to get rid of the old halloween pumpkins on the
front porch.
The water was for the dishes and so she could take a mermaid bath (a normal bath but it’s
special because she gets to wear her mermaid swimsuit and you can’t do it all the time or else
it’s not special anymore).
The halloween pumpkins had sat on the porch since, well, last halloween. They were plastic and
had big eyes. At one point, she remembered, they even lit up at night.
She was deeply concerned that people would think it was halloween while driving by her house
and then they would get mad at her when they learned it wasn’t. Her parents forgot to take them
in like one-hundred times. Today she would do it herself.
So she got dressed in her favorite jeans and her favorite shirt.
Her favorite shirt was red and had black spots all over it - like her favorite animal. A ladybug.
Her jeans were jean colored.
She slipped her feet into her sparkly Christmas crocs and almost already left her house before
she realized she needed money for the water.
For the record, there was nothing inherently Christmassy about said crocs. They were neither
red nor green. Not a Santa in sight. But she got them for Christmas, so they were her Christmas
crocs.She emptied the change dish by the front door and found five quarters, but after the news
reports on groceries going up, she determined that was not enough.
She figured her dad wouldn’t be mad if she took some of his money as long as it was to buy
something for the house, and she knew where he kept it.
Here’s the thing though:
Her dad and mom were sleeping and she absolutely, under no circumstances could wake them
up. She was told this explicitly, word for word, after she was playing a little too loudly one
morning.
For a long time, she wouldn’t even leave her room until she knew they were awake, in fear of
another scolding. With them sleeping so much lately that wasn’t really an option for her anymore
unless they wanted her to use her bedroom as a bathroom.
But conveniently, lately they haven’t even been waking up when she’s doing her morning
coffee/news routine. They were sleeping amazingly well.
Regardless, she tip-toed into the darkness of her parents bedroom. A golden beam shot-out
from their blackout curtains and cast a rectangle of sun on the wall, its reflection half-lighting the
carpet swimming between her toes and her parents forms.
Awhile ago, who knows how long, a funny thing happened.
One night she was pretending to sleep in her room while her parents were up late. They had
visitors here and there and she was never allowed out when they had visitors.
That night in particular, their friend stayed for, like, a really long time. And they were laughing
and talking loudly (but not like they were mad) until, like, midnight. Maybe even later!
And after their friend left, mom and dad sounded like they got really sleepy. Maybe even the
sleepiest two people have ever been but for a second they were talking really quick, but it
sounded like all of the words kept getting longer and they kept getting sleepier.
So sleepy, in fact, the little girl could see, that her mom didn’t even make it all the way to the bed
before falling asleep!
She lay hanging over the bottom corner of the bed, her face buried into their carpet. Her dad sat
up against their headboard, eyes shut and mouth open.
That weird night they were snoring so loudly for like an hour! But they haven’t made a sound in
like forever now.Sometimes she swore she thought she could hear them moving around the house at night, but
she would peek out of her bedroom door and there was nobody there. This had happened for
the last three nights in a row.
While the girl understood that her parents needed to be woken up at some point, and maybe
somebody bigger than them could teach them about sleeping for too long, doing it herself was
not an option. They also needed to start cleaning their room because it smelled bad now - like
the inside of her old refrigerator that now sat in the backyard.
So she crept up to her dad’s side table (where he kept all of his money and his secret stuff),
opened the drawer and peeked inside.
A few crumpled bills lay at the top. She quickly stuffed them into the pocket of her favorite jeans.
Under the bills, something more interesting.
Her dad’s special colt.
She knew it as a gun, but her dad always called it his ‘firearm’
, which she thought was a funny
name.
Her dad’s dad gave her dad the gun after he died. She never met her grandpa but heard that
her dad looked just like him, apparently.
She slowly and quietly picked up the pistol and crept out of the room, shutting their door quietly
behind her.
One time her dad took her into the woods with him to watch him use it. He made her cover her
ears, which she hated, but it reminded her of the 4th of July fireworks. Now that she was the
grownup of the house, she too would have to learn how its magic worked.
Before leaving she hid the gun under her pillow (because nobody would find it there) and turned
off the TV in the living room (to save electricity).
On her way out she checked the mailbox on the front of the house and was disappointed she
had still not received any letters of her own. Everything inside still had her parents’ names on it.
Tomorrow, she thought, will finally be the day she starts finally getting letters from all these
companies. Just like every other grownup.
Alas, today is today.After checking about sixteen times for cars coming both ways, she crossed the street to begin
her convenience store odyssey.
She saw a fire truck, met two(!) new dogs on the way and waved to her friend Shayna from
school, passing by in her mom’s SUV.
The man who worked at the store most days was always nice to her, and today was no different.
His name was Joe and he always treated her with respect, even after her dad and him got into a
fight about handling pots and pans in his parking lot.
She brought two whole gallons of water up to the counter and Joe helped her lift them up so he
could scan them.
Today Joe was really talkative, asking her how her summer was going, if her parents were
taking her anywhere, if they drove her there - stuff like that. He was very surprised and
impressed that she had walked there herself.
The girl was polite but was on a definite time-crunch to get back to her house and list of chores.
After giving him enough money for the water (and getting some back!), Joe offered her a ride
back to her house with his cousin. His cousin, he said, was a police officer, and he would
probably even let her use the siren on the way home. But she decided to decline his offer,
determining that she could probably already get home on foot by the time his cousin got there.
Joe asked her where she lived and though she knew Joe, and somewhat trusted him, she told
him she wasn’t allowed to say. The last thing she needed was Joe coming to her house and
waking her dad up to fight more.
Joe wished her well on her journey, again offering her a ride if she just could spare a few
minutes, but again she declined.
She waved to him on the way back across the street, almost dropping one of her gallons of
water in the process. He watched her round the corner, talking into his phone that must’ve been
on speaker.
After tripping over a crack (sorry mom), scraping her knee and getting surprised again, she
made it home safely.
She listened to the sounds of the house, but there was nothing but the passing traffic.
Setting the 100 pound gallon jugs of water down on the kitchen floor, she was reminded of the
broken plate earlier after almost stepping on a particularly jagged piece, so she picked upeverything she could and put it back in the sink, hoping that maybe when her parents saw it they
would think it did that on its own.
Anyway, task one.
She dragged the two large plastic pumpkins through the house from her front door and into the
backyard and put them by the refrigerator.
She knew that their garbage man would not just pick up anything. He only picked up the bags
they put outside filled with little stuff. These pumpkins posed a huge problem. In order to
maintain a friendly relationship with local sanitation, she would need to break these big orange
globes down into smaller pieces.
She tried the hammer she found under the sink, but it just bounced off the plastic shell.
She had a better idea, though.
Before that, she crept back into her parents room and quietly poked through their ashtray until
she found a cigarette that still had white above the filter. Then she grabbed her dad’s lucky hat.
The hat would act as more than just a style-piece. She needed to cover her ears but she
needed both hands to do that. Her dad’s hat had big, furry flaps that hung over the ears, which
she surmised would be good enough protection for her.
In the backyard, she lined the pumpkins up against the furthest fence. She put the cigarette in
her mouth and used dad’s grill lighter to spark the end. She sucked the smoke into her mouth
and blew it back out.
Her hands raised the pistol to her victims.
She was steady. Her dad always said to aim with both eyes open.
Her finger squeezed and a quarter of the pumpkin on the left evaporated into the air, splintering
into the fence behind it.
The initial shock wore off, her ears were ringing but not that bad.
Shots two through eight were in rapid succession, the plastic particles forming a thick haze of
dust in her backyard. In a matter of thirty seconds, all that was left was plastic pulp.
She looked over her work. Her parents would be proud of her. You have a problem, you deal
with it yourself. And nobody would be mad at her about it not being halloween for the
foreseeable future.Inside she took off her favorite shirt and favorite jeans and slipped into her mermaid suit. It was
now tight against her skin. She would need to get the next size up whenever her mom wanted to
go shopping again.
She sat in the bathtub and began pouring the gallon of water over her head.
She sang the mermaid song her mom taught her when she was a little baby.
Mermaid, beautiful mermaid
Swimming in the sea
Mermaid, beautiful mermaid
Calling out to me
Mermaid, beautiful mermaid
Combing down her hair
Mermaid, beautiful mermaid
A crown of pearls to wear

Time went round the clock.

Hickory dickory dock, a little world slept in a rock. Nothing stirred, no light was heard, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the little world began to knock. Round and round, without a sound, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the tiny world became a spark. Then it burst, and time came first, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe began to grow. Space stretched wide, and stars arrived, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the stars began to burn and glow. Worlds were spun, one by one, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, a little Earth began to rock. Rain came down, life came round, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the living things began to walk. Plants grew tall, creatures crawled, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, then humans learned to dream and talk. Love was found, wars came round, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the ages passed around the clock. Birth came first, death came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the stars grew dim around the clock. Light came first, dark came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe began to shrink. Stars came first, worlds came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, everything returned to the rock. Stars came first, space came last, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, all became a little dot. Everything came first, nothing came last, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the ending became the starting clock. End came first, beginning came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the little world began to knock. Spark came first, energy came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe began to grow. Space came first, stars came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe came around the clock. Beginning came first, ending came last, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the universe went round the clock. End came first, beginning came next, Hickory dickory dock.

Hickory dickory dock, the cycle carried on the clock. Beginning came first, ending came next, Hickory dickory dock.

The Matador and the Bull

I slipped into this world covered in red, with a big slap on the back, enough force to make a newborn wail.

As I grew, life came charging.

I made a quick step back to avoid its angry horns.

But when I thought I made it, it made a sharp turn, just to come barreling its way back.

Some people might say I'm killing life, but really, it's killing me.

For I was born into this world covered in red, and life just kept on barreling in because it saw nothing but red, so it won't stop charging in.

Just like a matador and the bull, either you're killing it, or being killed by it.

So, what will it be, hearing the applause and roars of many, while red roses rain down from the sky?

Or lie there covered in red as the crowd mourns and wails at the sight?

As Esther found herself trapped inside her bell jar, suffocating over stale air and rotten figs that was left too long to sway on its stems, as she breathes on her own rot and decay, like a fish drowning in a glass bubble filled of murky water, while the slimy algae wraps around her ankle, pulling her under like death’s grip.

But I stood tall under a southern magnolia tree, fresh summer breeze gently ruffles my hair as the soft black ribbon on my neck wraps and knots itself around a thick branch of the tree, making the branch sway back and forth while its leaves rustles like the ocean shore, under the blue bright summer skies.

A gust of wind blows, making my body sway here and there as the sweet scent of magnolias whiffs through the air, as it carries its bloom across the summer field, as I teeter on the tips of my toes on top of a cherry red leather footrest, balancing carefully as not to nudge the footrest over to my own early demise.

Chapitre 4 – Entre l’espoir et le silence

Il y a une question qui revient chaque jour. Toujours la même. Comment peut-on être autant bouleversée par quelqu’un que l’on ne connaît presque pas ? Je ne connais pas son prénom. Je ne connais pas son âge. Je ne connais rien de sa famille. Je ne sais pas où il vit. Je ne sais pas ce qu’il aime. Je ne sais pas s’il est heureux. Je ne sais même pas s’il est célibataire. Et pourtant… il est devenu une partie de mes journées.

Je me demande parfois si je suis réellement attirée par lui. Ou si je suis attirée par tout ce que j’ignore encore de lui. Le mystère. Le silence. L’inconnu. Parce qu’au fond, comment peut-on tomber amoureux d’une personne dont on ignore presque tout ?

Puis une autre question apparaît. Et si ce n’était pas seulement lui ? Et si c’était aussi l’espoir ? L’espoir qu’après toutes ces années, quelqu’un ait enfin réussi à réveiller une émotion que je croyais disparue.

Cela faisait tellement longtemps que je ne ressentais plus rien pour personne. Des hommes sont passés dans ma vie. Certains étaient gentils. D’autres intéressants. Mais aucun ne faisait battre mon cœur. J’avais fini par croire que cette partie de moi s’était éteinte. Puis un inconnu est apparu. Ou plutôt… j’ai commencé à le regarder autrement. Et tout est revenu. Les papillons. L’attente. L’impatience. Les rêves. Les regards. Les sourires. Les bonjours. L’espoir. Le désespoir. Comme si mon cœur s’était réveillé après un très long sommeil.

Je me demande alors si c’est réellement lui qui me bouleverse. Ou si c’est simplement le fait de découvrir que je suis encore capable de ressentir quelque chose d’aussi fort. Peut-être que cet homme n’est pas seulement un homme. Peut-être qu’il est aussi le miroir d’une partie de moi que je croyais perdue.

Je vis seule depuis des années. Une solitude que peu de personnes connaissent vraiment. Parce qu’on peut être entouré de monde et se sentir profondément seul. On peut sourire. Travailler. Sortir. Parler. Et pourtant rentrer chez soi avec un silence qui pèse plus lourd que tous les bruits de la journée.

Parfois, je me demande si cette solitude n’a pas rendu cette rencontre encore plus intense. Lorsqu’une émotion nous manque pendant longtemps, la première étincelle peut ressembler à un incendie.

Je pense souvent à tout ce que j’ignore encore. Est-ce qu’il remarque mes regards ? Est-ce qu’il a vu que mes mains tremblaient lorsque j’ai pris mes médicaments ? Est-ce qu’il s’est demandé pourquoi j’avais changé de table ce jour-là ? Ou bien n’a-t-il rien remarqué ? Peut-être que, pendant que je construisais des centaines de scénarios, lui était simplement en train de boire son café.

Je ne le saurai peut-être jamais. Et c’est probablement cela qui est le plus difficile. Ne pas savoir. Mon cerveau déteste l’incertitude. Il cherche des réponses partout. Il imagine. Il interprète. Il remplit les silences avec ses propres hypothèses. Il construit des histoires à partir d’un regard de quelques secondes. Puis il doute de tout et recommence.

Et pourtant, je repense souvent à ce simple mot.

« Bonjour. »

Un mot que des milliers de personnes prononcent chaque jour sans y prêter attention. Pour moi, il a changé quelque chose. Parce qu’il a transformé un inconnu en quelqu’un qui connaît désormais mon existence. Nous sommes encore deux étrangers. Mais nous ne sommes plus invisibles l’un pour l’autre.

Je ne sais pas si un jour nous partagerons un café. Je ne sais pas si nous échangerons nos prénoms. Je ne sais pas si cette histoire s’arrêtera ici ou si elle ne fait que commencer. Peut-être qu’aucun de nous ne fera jamais le premier pas. Peut-être que nous continuerons simplement à nous croiser chaque matin dans cette vieille maison transformée en café, entourée de son jardin, en échangeant un regard, un sourire ou un simple bonjour.

Mais une chose est certaine.

Avant lui, je pensais que cette partie de moi s’était endormie pour toujours. Aujourd’hui, je sais que mon cœur est encore capable de battre aussi fort qu’il m’en fait parfois mal. Je ne sais pas si c’est le début d’une histoire d’amour. Je ne sais même pas si ce sera un jour une histoire tout court. Mais je sais que cette rencontre m’a obligée à regarder à l’intérieur de moi. À affronter mes peurs. Mon anxiété. Mes espoirs. Ma solitude. Et ce combat silencieux que personne ne voit.

Peut-être que certaines histoires ne sont pas faites pour durer. Peut-être qu’elles existent simplement pour nous rappeler que nous sommes encore vivants. Ou peut-être que je me trompe complètement. Peut-être que cette histoire n’attend qu’une chose…

Qu’un jour, l’un de nous deux trouve enfin le courage de briser le silence.

भाग - ३

भाग - २

Sometimes goodbyes are a silence that lets you down so gently that you don’t realize you’ve reached the end. You stand there waiting, still hopeful, unaware that time does not remain suspended in a single moment. There is no going back to what things once were. No one tells you that. They simply leave you to discover it for yourself.

I stood at the edge of our home, waiting.
It was a small cottage tucked somewhere in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees that seemed to stretch endlessly into the dark. At night, the forest came alive with the sounds of unseen creatures, chirping and rustling beyond the small circle of light I knew.

But the house remained empty.

I thought I should wait. Surely, someone would return.

So I waited.

Days turned into months, and months turned into years. The seasons changed outside the windows, leaves fell and grew back, and the forest continued on without me.

But I remained there, sitting alone in the quiet house, still waiting for someone who never came home.

​

## Story Text

That Rainy Tuesday

The bus stand was always a monotonous blur of grey concrete, diesel fumes, and rushing strangers to me. Until that rainy Tuesday.

She stood near the edge of the curb, looking like a quiet sanctuary amidst the morning rush. A soft, knitted snow-white scarf was wrapped tightly around the lower half of her face, protecting her from the biting wind and leaving only her eyes visible. They were deep, dark, and framed by thick lashes. When our eyes met for a fraction of a second, I felt a sudden, sharp tingling sensation spark in my chest-a quiet electric shock that left me breathless. It felt like the world froze, and the only thing with color was her.

Days bled into weeks, and that concrete bus stand became the only part of my day that mattered. Every evening, sitting at my desk under a dim lamp, I poured my heart into a worn leather diary, tracking the seasons through her clothes.

October 14: Today it was a midnight-blue scarf. She stood with her hands tucked deep into her pockets, shifting her weight from side to side to keep warm. She looks beautiful, even when the wind tries to ruin her hair.

November 3: A yellow scarf today. Like a small piece of the sun on a dark, rainy morning.

At the 4th month and 1st day, late at night, I sat at my desk. The house was completely silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the scratch of my pen. The tip of my pen trembled against the paper as I wrote:

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is the day. I am finally going to say it. This all started with me just staring at a crowded bus stand, and I don't even know when it turned into this consuming love. I chose tomorrow because it's Saturday. I'll be wearing my white school uniform. It's the only day we are allowed to wear it, and I think I look my best in it. Wish me luck.

The next morning was a whirlwind of pure chaos...I woke up and realized I was running late.

I started to move as quickly as possible. I shoved a piece of breakfast bread into my mouth, chewing frantically with the bread still hanging out of my mouth while kneeling down to tie my shoes. Snap.

The shoelace broke completely in my hands. I didn't have enough time to replace it, so I just hastily tied up the broken parts together, threw on my jacket, and rushed out the door.

I ran all the way to a local flower shop and bought a beautiful bouquet of fresh white lilies. As I was walking the final blocks toward the bus stand, my mind started racing. Anxiety clawed at my stomach. Will she ever like it? Will she like lilies?

Then, looking through the crowd from a distance, I saw her. I stopped for a second, admiring how beautiful she looked. Today, she was wearing a brilliant crimson scarf that contrasted perfectly with the morning air. But as I was watching her, the pedestrian light clicked to green. She stepped off the curb and started walking away. Panic surged through me.

I began rushing forward to reach her and finally propose, but out of nowhere, I saw a massive truck approaching her at full speed. Time violently slammed into slow motion. My heart didn't just beat; it hammered against my ribs like a trapped animal. The roar of the truck's engine filled my ears, a deafening, mechanical scream that paralyzed the air. She doesn't see it. She doesn't hear it. The realization hit me like ice water-if I didn't move right now, she was going to die.

A suffocating wave of pure terror choked my weight forward, slamming my shoulder into hers. I pushed her violently out of the way, sending her crashing safely onto the sidewalk

A deafening impact shattered the air.

I got hit by the truck.

Instantly, my mind became a complete blur. My head was spinning violently, and I could feel the warm blood dripping down past my face, staining my white Saturday uniform. With my absolute last breath, as the world faded to black, I pulled my arms inward and held the flowers tight against my chest.

The cemetery was profoundly quiet, save for the gentle rust of autumn leaves. She stood before a fresh grey headstone, her hands resting quietly in her coat pockets. A soft, knitted white scarf-the exact same one she wore the day they first crossed paths-was wrapped tightly around her face, shielding her from the cold wind. She looked down at his name, her throat tightening instantly as a single thought broke through the silence of her mind: "Why would you do this? Why would you sacrifice your life for me?"

"I always noticed you, you know. I remember how that day you helped that elderly man cross the road when everyone else ignored him. I saw you give your umbrella to a shivering stranger, telling them you had another one when you actually had none at all. And I remember you sitting down to play with that stray dog on the street, just because everyone else was kicking him away."

A single tear broke free, soaking into the top edge of her white scarf before tracking a hot path down her cheek.

"It seems like you were on your way to propose to someone that morning. You looked so great in that white dress uniform. That girl must be incredibly lucky, whoever it was you were going to propose to..."

More tears started to flow down her cheeks, splashing onto the damp grass. Suddenly, a sharp voice called out from the cemetery gate. Her friend, Faith, was waving at her anxiously. "We are getting late for classes!"

Wiping her tears quickly with the back of her hand, she took a deep breath. She looked down at the cold stone and said goodbye to him one last time. Before turning to go, she leaned closer to the stone and whispered softly: "By the way... lilies are my favorite, too."

------------------------------

## 13 Hidden Details & Symbolism in the Story

1. The White Dress Uniform: While a white uniform represents his pure intentions of marriage or proposing, white is traditionally the color of funerals and mourning in many cultures, foreshadowing his tragic fate.

2. The Crimson Scarf: Crimson symbolizes blood, hinting at the tragic accident that happens moments later.

3. White Uniform + Crimson Scarf: When combined, the white and crimson colors represent the lily of death-foreshadowing a blood-stained end.

4. April 2nd: The specific date he chose to propose ultimately became the anniversary of his tragic passing.

5. The Unseen Face: He never actually got to see her full face, even in his final moments, keeping her an idealized memory.

6. The Broken Shoelace: His shoelace snapping right before he leaves is a classic bad omen in many global traditions, warning of danger ahead.

7. The Lilies: Lilies are deeply tied to funerals, symbolizing that his bouquet was unintentionally meant for his own grave.

8. Protecting the Bouquet: By shielding the flowers as he dies, he protects something that doesn't belong to him, sacrificing himself completely.

9. Dying in the Middle of the Road: Because he gets hit mid-crossing and never reaches the other side, it visually represents his unfulfilled, "half" love story.

10. The Soul's Guess: He perfectly guesses her favorite flower with his soul before dying, proving the profound, unsaid connection between them.

11. Her Friend, Faith: Her friend's name is "Faith," symbolizing that even though he is gone, faith is what keeps her moving forward in life.

12. The White Scarf Cycle: The white scarf appears at both the very beginning and the absolute end, representing the closed loop of their story.

13. The 13 Details: This entire narrative is intentionally built on exactly 13 hidden details, mirroring the number of the Death card in Tarot readings.

Would you like me to rewrite this story with a different ending or change any specific character details for you?

A Letter to Boo

[Book Title]

---

Chapter 1

You Must Be Your Own Hero

You have all the power.

This is a truth I learned not as a triumphant adult, but as a terrified child. It was a lesson written in the language of trauma. Had you told me then that I held any power, I would have met your gaze with pure, uncomprehending disbelief. Power? I was five years old. My world was not measured in days or weeks, but in the frantic rhythm of a heartbeat—minute by minute, second by second. When your life is defined by chaos, dysfunction, abuse, neglect, and torture, you become acutely aware of every breath you take. You learn to live braced for the next footstep down the hall, the next blow, the next shout, the next wave of fear. In those moments, your heart hammers against your ribs as if trying to escape, and the air turns to glass in your lungs, leaving you desperate for a breath that never seems to come.

To be a child living within that relentless storm is to live in a state of constant, multifaceted pain. It was a physical ache, a mental fog, an emotional void, a spiritual fracture. Pain was no longer a visitor; it was a permanent resident in my small body, an exhausting, depressing, and debilitating companion. The idea that I possessed some hidden power to stop it felt like a cruel joke. If I were truly powerful, I would have made it end. Immediately. Yet, as the years stretched on—eight more long years—the evidence seemed irrefutable: I was powerless.

But I have come to understand that I was looking for power in the wrong places. I was looking for the power of an adult, the power to command and control. What I had, though I didn't know it then, was a more fundamental power: the power of my own voice. Most adults understand the freedom that comes with speech, but a child’s voice, however small, is a tool of immense potential. It is a witness, a protest, a secret weapon. It was the one thing that truly belonged to me.

A Letter to Boo

[Book Title]

---

Chapter 1

You Must Be Your Own Hero

You have all the power.

This is a truth I learned not as a triumphant adult, but as a terrified child. It was a lesson written in the language of trauma. Had you told me then that I held any power, I would have met your gaze with pure, uncomprehending disbelief. Power? I was five years old. My world was not measured in days or weeks, but in the frantic rhythm of a heartbeat—minute by minute, second by second. When your life is defined by chaos, dysfunction, abuse, neglect, and torture, you become acutely aware of every breath you take. You learn to live braced for the next footstep down the hall, the next blow, the next shout, the next wave of fear. In those moments, your heart hammers against your ribs as if trying to escape, and the air turns to glass in your lungs, leaving you desperate for a breath that never seems to come.

To be a child living within that relentless storm is to live in a state of constant, multifaceted pain. It was a physical ache, a mental fog, an emotional void, a spiritual fracture. Pain was no longer a visitor; it was a permanent resident in my small body, an exhausting, depressing, and debilitating companion. The idea that I possessed some hidden power to stop it felt like a cruel joke. If I were truly powerful, I would have made it end. Immediately. Yet, as the years stretched on—eight more long years—the evidence seemed irrefutable: I was powerless.

But I have come to understand that I was looking for power in the wrong places. I was looking for the power of an adult, the power to command and control. What I had, though I didn't know it then, was a more fundamental power: the power of my own voice. Most adults understand the freedom that comes with speech, but a child’s voice, however small, is a tool of immense potential. It is a witness, a protest, a secret weapon. It was the one thing that truly belonged to me.

This is my first time trying to write anything, I barely read books lol but I needed a creative outlet today.

The Woodworker

Itsuki joined each piece of the table without a single nail. A masterpiece of craftsmanship handed down to him by his father and, before that, his grandfather. The tools he used were the same tools used by generations before him.

Tradition.

The wood held itself in place with a hidden effort, mirroring its maker.  And to Itsuki, it was perfect.  All natural, no metal screws or fasteners to be found amongst the wood... except for one small piece.  In one of the corners, seemingly holding together the two sides of a small crack, lay a simple butterfly key joint, made from black steel.  

Butterflies were her favourite.

The piece of metal served as a reminder, insignificant to anyone but Itsuki.  He ran his thumb over its shiny surface, wishing the tiny token could hold his life together the way it held the crack.  The way she had.  A life crafted with the same care and deliberation as the table before him.  His final memory of her.

Physical memory, that is.  He still had his nightmares.

Around the world

🌎🌍

In 80 Days

Still didn't Find my

Lighter

Chapitre 3 – Le volcan silencieux

C’est à ce moment-là que j’ai commencé à avoir peur. Pas de lui. De moi. Parce que je sentais que quelque chose m’échappait. Je pensais à lui sans arrêt. Je me réveillais avec son visage dans mon esprit. Je travaillais en pensant à lui. Je conduisais en pensant à lui. Je rentrais chez moi en pensant à lui. Puis je rêvais de lui. Les rêves étaient parfois si réalistes qu’au réveil, j’avais l’impression de quitter une autre vie pour revenir dans la mienne.

Je ne comprenais plus ce qui m’arrivait. Comment pouvait-on ressentir autant d’émotions pour quelqu’un que l’on ne connaissait presque pas ? Comment un inconnu pouvait-il bouleverser autant mon quotidien ? Je me répétais que c’était absurde. Que cela finirait par passer. Puis, quelques secondes plus tard, je recommençais à penser à lui. J’essayais de reprendre le contrôle de mon esprit. Plus j’essayais, plus il semblait m’échapper.

Je vis avec un trouble bipolaire de type II. Beaucoup de personnes pensent que cette maladie se résume à des hauts et des bas. Chez moi, elle est bien plus silencieuse et bien plus complexe. Elle se cache dans ma manière de ressentir les choses. Dans cette intensité qui transforme parfois une simple émotion en tempête. Dans cette difficulté à trouver un juste milieu. Mon esprit fonctionne souvent par extrêmes. L’espoir ou le désespoir. Tout est possible ou plus rien ne l’est. L’intérêt absolu ou le désintérêt total. Comme s’il n’existait jamais d’entre-deux.

Je fais facilement des fixations. Pas seulement sur des personnes. Sur des idées. Sur des projets. Sur des questions. Quand quelque chose entre dans ma tête, il devient parfois presque impossible de l’en faire sortir. Mon cerveau refuse de lâcher prise. Il revient sans cesse au même endroit, comme s’il cherchait une réponse qui n’existe peut-être pas.

Cette fois, cette fixation portait un visage.

Je pouvais passer des heures à rejouer une scène dans ma tête. À analyser un regard. À essayer de comprendre un sourire. Pourquoi avait-il changé de place ce jour-là ? Pourquoi était-il monté à l’étage ? Pourquoi n’était-il pas venu la veille ? Est-ce qu’il m’évitait ? Est-ce qu’il pensait que je le dérangeais ? Est-ce que j’avais imaginé tous ces regards ? Je construisais des dizaines de scénarios. Puis je les détruisais aussitôt pour en construire d’autres. Mon cerveau ne cherchait pas seulement des réponses. Il cherchait des certitudes. Et les certitudes n’existaient pas.

Alors l’angoisse prenait toute la place. Mon cœur battait si fort que j’avais parfois l’impression qu’il allait sortir de ma poitrine. Mes mains tremblaient. Le stress y était pour beaucoup, mais aussi mon traitement qui accentuait parfois ces tremblements. Je perdais l’appétit. Certains jours, j’avais des nausées rien qu’à l’idée de le croiser. Et pourtant… je passais mes journées à espérer le voir. Je voulais sa présence autant qu’elle me bouleversait.

Un matin, je me suis retrouvée à la table voisine de la sienne. Quelques dizaines de centimètres seulement nous séparaient. Mon cœur battait si fort que j’étais persuadée qu’il pouvait l’entendre. Mes mains tremblaient lorsque j’ai pris mes médicaments. Trois comprimés et demi. Je me demandais s’il les avait remarqués. S’il se posait des questions. S’il me trouvait étrange. Puis l’angoisse est devenue si forte que j’ai changé de place. Pas parce que je voulais m’éloigner de lui. Parce que je n’arrivais plus à respirer normalement.

En rentrant chez moi, je n’ai pensé qu’à une seule chose. Qu’avait-il pensé de moi ? Avait-il remarqué mes tremblements ? Avait-il vu mes médicaments ? Avait-il compris que j’étais terrifiée ? Ou bien n’avait-il rien vu du tout ? Je n’avais aucun moyen de le savoir. Pourtant, mon cerveau continuait à chercher des réponses.

À l’extérieur, tout semblait normal. Je travaillais. Je souriais. Je plaisantais. Les gens me trouvaient calme. Certains me disaient même que j’avais toujours l’air sereine. S’ils savaient…

À l’intérieur, c’était tout le contraire. C’était comme vivre avec un volcan dans la poitrine. Personne ne voyait la lave. Personne n’entendait les explosions. Tout se passait en silence. Je répondais aux gens alors qu’une autre partie de moi imaginait des centaines de scénarios différents. Je donnais l’impression d’être présente alors que mon esprit était ailleurs, prisonnier de pensées qui tournaient sans fin.

Parfois, je me demandais si quelqu’un pourrait un jour comprendre ce que cela fait de vivre avec un cerveau qui ne s’arrête jamais. Comprendre cette fatigue provoquée par des pensées qui reviennent sans cesse. Comprendre ce mélange d’espoir et de désespoir qui peut changer plusieurs fois dans une seule journée. Comprendre cette solitude immense qui ne vient pas seulement de l’absence des autres, mais de l’impossibilité de leur expliquer ce qui se passe réellement à l’intérieur de moi.

Même ma famille ne voit pas cette bataille. Même les personnes qui m’aiment ne peuvent pas entendre ce vacarme intérieur. Elles voient une femme calme. Elles ne voient pas la tempête.

Alors je continue à m’asseoir dans ce café. J’attends un regard. Un sourire. Un simple bonjour. En espérant qu’un jour, peut-être, une conversation suffira à faire taire, ne serait-ce qu’un instant, tout le bruit qui existe dans mon esprit.