The bookstore has never felt this small before.
Too many thoughts.
Too many glances.
Too many secrets threading through the air like an invisible web.
And I?
I'm stuck in the middle of it.
Amina is gripping that book so tightly, I almost expect it to crumble in her hands. The edges of the pages curl under the pressure, her knuckles white. Her breath is slow, measured—too measured. Like she's forcing herself to stay calm.
Rayhan, standing near the shelves, doesn't even pretend to be relaxed anymore. His fingers tap against his arm in a steady rhythm—one, two, three. His thinking pattern. I've seen him do this before. When he's connecting dots no one else can see.
Elias—
I watch him carefully. He's leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, too still.
That's the thing about Elias. He's always writing, always doing something. A pen scratching against paper, a finger tapping against his chin, an eyebrow raising ever so slightly when someone says something that doesn't add up.
But now?
Nothing.
Stillness.
And that's how I know he's lying.
Then there's Max.
For once, he isn't fumbling through life like an overgrown puppy.
That? That's unsettling.
Because Max is always a clumsy idiot. A fool. A guy who knocks over stacks of books and apologizes a hundred times before anyone can even get mad at him.
But this Max?
This Max is quiet.
This Max isn't meeting anyone's gaze.
This Max just took the letter and claimed it as his.
"This letter isn't meant for you, Amina."
His voice had been light, easy, as if he was joking. But the way he held the letter? The way his fingers twitched slightly before he slid it into his pocket?
That wasn't a joke.
Wrong.
It was meant for her.
Because I was the one who gave it to her.
Because I saw it.
And now, somehow, I know less than I did before.
Max shifts slightly, adjusting the way his hands rest inside his hoodie pocket. Like he knows someone is watching.
Like he knows I'm watching.
I narrow my eyes at him, waiting for him to slip up. But he doesn't look at me.
Elias does.
And that? That's when my stomach twists.
Because Elias is uncomfortable.
Not his usual, calculated, journalistic discomfort—the kind that makes him ask more questions.
No.
This is different.
This is Elias, the man who knows more than he lets on, realizing he's lost control.
For a second—just a second—our eyes meet.
And something passes between us.
A silent understanding.
I know you're lying.
His fingers twitch. He looks away.
I hate that.
I hate that Elias—who is always a step ahead—isn't ahead anymore.
And for the first time, I wonder—
What the hell is actually going on?
The silence is suffocating.
Rayhan steps forward, voice sharp.
"Max. What exactly are you hiding?"
Max?
He just laughs.
Not loud. Not obnoxious.
Just low.
A sound that should belong to someone else.
A sound that doesn't fit him.
A sound that makes my skin crawl.
"Me?" Max tilts his head slightly, his usual grin half-formed but not quite reaching his eyes. "Hiding? Now why would I do that?"
Rayhan doesn't blink. Doesn't back down.
"Because you took the letter."
"I told you," Max shrugs, too casual. "It's mine."
Amina shifts beside me, her breath sharp.
I glance at her. She's not buying it.
Neither am I.
"Then read it." I say it before I can stop myself.
Max goes still.
Too still.
His fingers tighten around the letter in his pocket, the fabric pulling slightly from the pressure.
Elias notices.
Rayhan notices.
We all do.
"Go on, Max," I say, tilting my head. "If it's yours, read it out loud."
For a second, I think he's going to.
For a second, the world holds its breath.
Then—
Max grins. The Max I know. The fool. The idiot.
And he laughs.
Again.
"Nah," he says, rocking back on his heels. "That would ruin the fun, wouldn't it?"
What fun?
The tension is unbearable now.
Max knows something.
Elias knows something.
And the rest of us?
We're drowning in the unknown.
For the first time since this whole mess started, I feel cold.
And I realize—
We're playing a game we don't understand.
And worse?
Someone else is moving the pieces.