I stretched on my seat and glanced around the empty cabin, feeling the weight of exhaustion in my limbs. I had dozed off again while engrossed in my book, and now, to my dismay, I noticed that the book in my hands was torn. The once-pristine pages were marred by a jagged rip, a clear testament to my careless slumber.
"No," I shouted in despair.
How could I be so careless, so thoughtless? The torn pages in my hands felt like a tangible symbol of my failure, a grievous mistake that seemed to affront the very essence of what the book represented. A romance novel, a cherished escape from reality and a source of solace during these turbulent times, now lay in tatters because of my own negligence. The irony of the situation was almost cruel—my sanctuary of fiction had been defiled by my own hands.
"How could I have been so foolish?" I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. The sharp sting of regret and self-reproach made it hard to breathe. "I will never sleep again," I declared with a fervent determination, as if my vow could somehow undo the damage and restore the book to its former state. I hugged the book tightly to my chest, trying to hold onto some semblance of its former perfection, even though I knew it was impossible.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, biting my bottom lip in frustration. The self-accusation cut deeply, as I grappled with the realization that I had ruined something so precious to me. It was more than just a book; it was a reminder of better times, a bridge to a world where my problems felt small and manageable. My irritation was solely directed at myself, for being so heedless, for letting a moment of rest turn into a permanent blemish on something that meant so much.
"What's wrong?" Callum's voice startled me as he walked in. Ever since our last interaction, I had felt a growing awkwardness around him.
"Uh, it's nothing," I said, avoiding eye contact. "Oh, wait, did you buy the book, or is it from a library?"
"I bought it," he answered, and I sighed with relief.
"Can I have another one? I'm almost done with this one," I asked, though it was only the fifth time I'd requested a new book.
"Of course," he replied, turning to leave.
"And…" I added quickly, grappling with a thought that had been on my mind for some time. As a female lead, I felt it was crucial to document my experiences accurately. Who knew what twists and turns awaited me? I needed a reference to make sense of it all. After all, in novels, characters always seemed to keep journals for a reason.
"Can I have a notebook?" I asked tentatively.
"No," he said, his tone abruptly changing.
"Why?" I asked, taken aback by his sudden shift in attitude.
"Nothing," he said curtly and left the room.
Why the sudden refusal? Callum's abrupt denial of my request for a notebook felt like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit. There had to be something he was hiding about books—something that made him so reluctant to provide me with one. My curiosity was piqued, yet it was tangled with a growing sense of unease. I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that lingered after his response. It was as though an invisible thread of tension had been woven into our interactions, making me feel both wary and uncertain.
My instincts, honed by a strange mixture of intuition and anxiety, were screaming at me to run, to escape from the situation before me. But the reasons behind this urge eluded me. Ever since I had awakened, a pervasive sense of insecurity had surrounded my interactions with Callum, despite his outward appearance of kindness and concern. It was as if there were hidden layers to his behavior that I couldn't fully comprehend.
Is there more to my story that I'm missing? I couldn't help but wonder if there was something crucial that I needed to remember—a key to understanding the mysterious circumstances of my life. The questions gnawed at me: What if there was something significant I had forgotten? The thought of Lucy kept resurfacing in my mind. I wished she were here; she might have known the truth or offered some clarity.
What if she's still alive? The possibility lingered like a flickering candle in the dark, offering a glimmer of hope amid the shadows of uncertainty. The idea that there might be more to uncover, more to piece together, was both daunting and tantalizing. My longing for answers grew stronger, fueled by the hope that there was still a chance to uncover the truth and make sense of the fragmented pieces of my past.
"I'm having weird imaginations again," I mumbled to myself.
I decided to go outside to clear my head. After wandering aimlessly for a while, I came across a large tree overlooking a small stream—an idyllic spot for reading. I sat down and continued with the book but soon found myself growing drowsy. Not wanting to return to the cabin just yet, I leaned against the tree and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, the sun was nearing the horizon. I stood up and dusted myself off, only to notice ominous scribbles on the ground.
RUN!
RUN!
The words were stark and alarming. Had I written this in my sleep? Was it a subconscious expression of my desire to escape, or was it a genuine warning? What was happening? What should I do?
"Lilien," Callum's voice called out. I stepped on the scribbles without noticing and turned to him.
"I'm here," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I've been looking for you," he said, concern evident in his voice.
"Oh, I came out to read and lost track of time," I explained.
"Let's head back; it's getting dark," he said, and I nodded. I followed him, my mind racing as I tried to clear away any trace of the writing. Callum glanced at the spot, then back at me, his expression unreadable.
"I'm feeling hungry after all that reading," I said with an awkward laugh. He nodded in response and turned to lead the way back.