The next day after they spent the night together again was normal, like a couple's daily life. It started with coffee, but in the home, not at the coffee shop, because Laria did a morning run every day.
Serio woke first.
That in itself was unusual. He was not typically an early riser—not someone who believed in the virtue of mornings or the Protestant work ethic of greeting the dawn. He was someone who slept until his body decided it was finished, who treated the first hours of daylight as suggestions rather than obligations, who had built his entire life around the principle that time was fluid and schedules were for people who hadn't figured out how to live yet.
But today, his eyes opened naturally to pale grey light filtering through the balcony doors of his bedroom. The light came in at an angle, hitting them like a gentle wake-up call, turning the room from black to charcoal to something almost silver. It was the kind of light that belonged to early autumn mornings, before the city fully woke, when everything still held the possibility of being anything.
The bedroom itself was a study in minimalism. Grey walls. Black furniture. A king-sized bed with sheets in charcoal grey that had that specific weight and texture that came from high thread counts and Egyptian cotton. The blankets and pillows carried a fresh, rich scent—expensive detergent, fabric softener, the smell of things that cost money but didn't announce themselves. There was a nightstand on each side of the bed, a standing mirror in the far corner near the walk-in closet, and nothing else. No art on the walls. No photographs. No clutter. Just space and breath and the deliberate absence of anything that wasn't essential.
Laria was still asleep beside him.
She occupied her own territory in the bed—close but not skin-to-skin, sharing the space but maintaining her own borders. Even in sleep, she looked composed, her long brunette hair spread across the pillow in a way that seemed almost styled, her breathing even and quiet. She slept like someone who had learned not to take up too much space, who had trained herself to be self-contained even in unconsciousness.
Serio lay there for a moment, just existing in the quiet, studying the way the light moved across the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the city waking up—garbage trucks, early traffic, a dog barking three blocks away. His mind was unusually clear. No anxiety. No racing thoughts. No sense that he needed to be anywhere or doing anything. Just... presence.
It felt normal.
That was the strangest part—how completely, utterly normal it felt to wake up with someone else in his bed. Not uncomfortable. Not intrusive. Just... normal. Like this was how mornings were supposed to be, like he'd been doing this for years instead of two days.
He wondered if that should worry him.
He got out of bed carefully, moving with the practiced silence of someone who knew how to be a ghost in his own house. The floor was hardwood, cold under his bare feet, and he moved across it without making a sound. He pulled open the closet—walk-in, organized with military precision, everything in its place—and grabbed his running clothes. Black athletic pants. Black moisture-wicking shirt. Black jacket. The uniform of someone who had figured out what worked and saw no reason to deviate.
He dressed in the closet, then padded downstairs to the kitchen.
The first floor of his house was an open concept—kitchen flowing into living room, separated only by the island counter. Everything was modern, clean lines, expensive appliances that looked like they belonged in a cooking show. The $30,000 range sat mostly unused, too complex for someone whose relationship with cooking was utilitarian at best. But the espresso machine—that got daily use. It was a La Marzocco, the kind that baristas used in high-end cafés, and Serio knew how to operate it with the precision of a man who took his coffee seriously.
He started a double shot, listening to the machine hiss and gurgle, filling the space with the smell of dark roast and pressure and steam. The smell alone was enough to wake him up fully, to shift his brain from the soft space of early morning into something sharper, more focused.
He was pulling the shot when he heard movement upstairs. Footsteps. The sound of a door opening—his bathroom door. Water running. The choreography of someone else's morning routine happening in his space.
Laria appeared maybe ten minutes later, coming down the stairs already dressed in her running gear. She wore beige athletic clothing—pants and a fitted top that somehow managed to look both practical and stylish, like she'd put thought into her running wardrobe the same way some people put thought into their work clothes. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, still damp from washing her face, and even without makeup, she looked put-together in a way that suggested this was just how she existed in the world.
"Morning," she said, her voice still carrying a trace of sleep, slightly rough around the edges.
"Morning," Serio replied. He poured the espresso into a small ceramic cup—no sugar, no milk, just straight black—and handed it to her across the counter.
She took it and downed it in two swallows, barely tasting it, treating it like fuel rather than experience. "You really coming?"
"You really do the morning run thing every day?" Serio asked, not quite answering the question.
"Every day," she confirmed. She was already bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, her body gearing up for movement, for the endorphins and the rhythm and whatever it was that made people voluntarily run before breakfast. "So? You coming?"
Serio looked at her—at the expectation in her face, at the way she'd already integrated him into her routine without asking permission, at the implied intimacy of assuming he'd just go along with her morning ritual. He thought about saying no. He thought about making one of his abstract philosophical jokes about how humans weren't meant to run unless something was chasing them, about how mornings were a construct, about how he was a writer and writers worked at night and slept through dawn like civilized people.
Instead, he heard himself say, "Yeah. Give me five minutes."
He went upstairs, brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, ran his fingers through his black hair to give it some semblance of style. When he came back down, Laria was stretching in the living room, bending and flexing with the easy flexibility of someone who did this every day, whose body knew the routine so well it could execute it on autopilot.
They left the house together, stepping out into the September morning that was cold but with the promise of sun later. The sky was grey, heavy with clouds that looked like they might burn off or might settle in for the day—it could go either way. The air had that specific autumn crispness that made you walk faster, made you glad you wore a jacket, made the city feel cleaner somehow.
They walked the fifteen minutes to the park, moving through streets that were just starting to wake up. A few other early risers—joggers, people walking dogs, someone doing tai chi in a small plaza. The conversation between them was light, easy, the kind of talk that filled space without demanding anything: comments about the weather, observations about storefronts, the question of whether the bagel place on the corner was any good (Serio said yes, Laria said she'd have to try it).
"Your hair looks amazing when you run, by the way," Serio said as they reached the entrance to the park.
Laria glanced at him sideways, surprised. "What?"
"Just an observation," he said, and there was a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, like he was amused by his own sincerity.
The park was massive—the kind that looked like Central Park, with its winding paths and clusters of old trees and open spaces where people would later gather to play frisbee or have picnics or do group yoga. At this hour, it was mostly empty except for the dedicated runners and the homeless people who hadn't yet been rousted by the morning patrol. The paths were well-maintained, smooth asphalt cutting through grass and trees, marked with the occasional bench or trash can or lamppost.
They started running.
Laria set the pace—not fast, but not slow either. A steady, sustainable rhythm that suggested she could keep this up for miles. Serio matched it easily. His body was athletic in the way of someone who had been trained for endurance and efficiency rather than bulk. His long legs ate up the distance, his breathing stayed even, and he fell into position just slightly behind her, letting her lead, watching the way she moved through the space with confidence and purpose.
The morning was cold enough that their breath was visible, little puffs of white that dissipated quickly in the air. The sun was starting to break through the clouds in places, sending shafts of golden light through the trees, turning the leaves—still mostly green but touched with amber at the edges—into something that looked like stained glass.
They didn't talk much while running. Just the occasional comment: "Watch the root there." "Nice dog." "Guy doing pull-ups on that tree branch, impressive." The kind of shorthand communication that happened when two people were focused on the same physical task, when words weren't necessary but could punctuate the rhythm.
It was near the end of their run—maybe forty minutes in, when they'd looped around the big lake and were heading back toward the main entrance—that Serio saw them.
Leona and Eno. Running together.
They were maybe fifty meters ahead, close enough that Serio could see them clearly but far enough that details were slightly soft around the edges. Leona was in normal running clothes—black leggings, a grey hoodie, practical sneakers. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed for attention. Just functional athletic wear for someone who ran because it was good for her body and brain, not because she wanted to be seen doing it.
Eno was in simple joggers and a t-shirt. His 178cm frame was lean, all sharp angles and nervous energy. His black hair was short, his face had those sharp edges that made him handsome in a severe way—not nice, exactly, but striking. He ran with a kind of coiled tension, like he was always ready to sprint or stop or change direction.
They were running close together. Not affectionate—no hand-holding, no intimate touches—but close. The proximity of two people who were sharing an activity, who were comfortable with each other's presence.
Serio felt something shift in his chest. Not jealousy, exactly. Just... awareness. A recognition that Leona was moving on, was creating new patterns that didn't include him.
Laria noticed him noticing. She glanced over, saw the almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw set just slightly, and she understood without needing explanation. She'd seen enough relationships—had been in enough of her own messy situations—to recognize the signs of history meeting present.
They passed each other on the path. No eye contact. Leona kept her eyes forward, focused on her running. Serio did the same. Eno was oblivious, lost in his own thoughts or his own breathing or whatever it was that occupied his mind. Laria just kept pace, letting it happen, understanding that sometimes the kindest thing you could do was pretend you didn't notice.
The moment lasted maybe three seconds—the time it took for two pairs of runners to pass each other on a park path. Then the distance opened up again, and it was over.
After they were past, nothing changed. The rhythm of their run continued. The morning continued. It was like nothing had happened at all.
When they finally slowed to a walk, cooling down, their breath coming harder now, their bodies warm despite the cold air, Serio led them to a bench. The same bench where they'd sat the day before, where he'd drawn the line on Laria's palm. It was positioned under a large oak tree, facing a small pond where ducks were starting to congregate, hoping for breadcrumbs from early-morning visitors.
They sat side by side, stretching, letting their heart rates come down. The bench was wooden, weathered, carved with the names and initials of people who'd sat here before them—J+M, RIP TOMMY, CLASS OF '09. The urban archeology of public spaces.
"So," Laria said after a few minutes, her tone light and teasing, with an undercurrent of something more serious, "jealousy is a sign of weak women and men, and it's silent cancer in couples' relationships. Right?"
Serio turned to look at her. His expression shifted—not dramatically, but enough that she could see he was taking this seriously. Maybe ten percent more serious than he'd been a moment ago. "Please, my dear goddess Aphrodite," he said, and his voice had that lecturing quality now, that tone of someone explaining something important. "I only feel bad that I might have lost forever my best friend. But no, I never have felt like that for Leona. Okay?"
He paused, looking directly into her eyes with that intense Serio gaze that felt like he was trying to see all of you at once. "And now, please don't be weak."
When he said the word "weak," his entire face went serious—not angry, but heavy with meaning, with expectation, with the weight of whatever standards he was holding her to.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black pencil. It was elegant, expensive-looking—a Graf von Faber-Castell, the kind that cost three hundred dollars and came in a wooden box. The kind of pen that serious writers carried, that doubled as a status symbol and a tool.
"You see this black pencil?" Serio said, holding it up between them like he was a professor with a piece of evidence. "It lasts five days when applied. Look at what I will do."
He took her left hand—gently but firmly, turning it so her palm faced up—and he held her gaze while he drew. The pencil was soft, the graphite dark and rich. He drew a three-centimeter horizontal line across the center of her palm, deliberate and careful, like he was signing a contract or casting a spell.
The line was stark against her skin. Permanent for the next five days, according to him. A mark. A reminder.
"Why did you do this?" Laria asked. She wasn't offended—just intrigued, curious about what game they were playing now, what metaphor he was constructing.
"You need to be a strong woman for your book," Serio explained. His tone was somewhere between lecture and care, like a teacher who actually wanted his student to succeed. "And like a strong man in your view, I have to do something. Whenever you show a sign of weakness, I will draw something in your hands or other parts of your body. Now just a line. But how you will direct that line is in your hand."
He was still holding her hand, his thumb pressed lightly against her palm, holding the line in place like it might smudge if he let go.
"Why are you like this?" Laria asked, but she was smiling now, a genuine smile that reached her eyes.
"Don't fall for me, please," Serio said, his voice shifting back to something lighter, more playful. "I don't like that."
"I fall for you isn't a duo," Laria replied, using his own phrasing back at him, grinning. "Worry not, my dear. Let's go to the coffee shop and drink something."
They stood and started walking. The thirty-minute walk to Tetori took them through neighborhoods that shifted from residential to commercial, from quiet streets with brownstones to busier avenues with storefronts and traffic. They talked the whole way—about her book, about his, about the library they were going to visit later, about nothing and everything. The conversation flowed easily, naturally, like they'd been doing this for years instead of days.
By the time they reached Tetori, it was late morning—almost eleven. The café was in its mid-morning rush, that window between breakfast and lunch when people came in for lattes and pastries and a place to sit with their laptops. There was a line at the counter—maybe eight or nine people deep—and most of the tables were occupied. But their booth was free. The one near the window. The one Serio always sat in.
They ordered hot chocolate instead of coffee. The morning was cold, and sometimes you needed warmth more than caffeine, needed sweetness more than bitterness. They took their ceramic mugs—white, simple, the weight of good pottery—and settled into the booth, warming their hands on the cups, looking out the window at the street.
The waiter and barista recognized them by now—not by name, but by face, by the fact that they'd been in here enough to be regulars. They nodded, went about their work, minded their business. Professional and efficient.
Serio and Laria sat across from each other, their knees almost touching under the small table. They talked about small things—the run, the park, whether they should get food. The kind of conversation that filled space without demanding anything, that created intimacy through proximity rather than depth.
Twenty minutes later, the door chimed, and Leona walked in with Eno.
She'd changed from her running clothes. Now she wore jeans and a grey sweater, her black hair still slightly damp from a shower, pulled back loosely. She had on minimal makeup—just enough to look put-together without looking like she'd tried. Her brown eyes scanned the café automatically, and they landed on Serio almost immediately.
It was impossible not to see him. At 190cm, dressed in black, sitting in the window booth, he was like a landmark in the space.
Eno was beside her, dressed in casual clothes—jeans, a button-up shirt, nothing remarkable. He was handsome in that sharp, severe way, but there was something about him that didn't quite land—something in his eyes or the set of his mouth that suggested he wasn't as nice as he was trying to appear.
Leona and Eno sat down across the café, not hiding but not acknowledging either. They ordered—tea for her, coffee for him—and started talking quietly. Their body language was polite, friendly, but not intimate. Not yet, anyway.
Laria noticed Leona staring. It happened twice over the next few minutes—quick glances that landed on Laria with an expression that was part hostility, part sadness, part something Laria couldn't quite name. Laria kept her face neutral. She wasn't threatened. She wasn't angry. She just... didn't care. This was Serio's past, not hers. Whatever history existed between him and Leona was their business.
After a few minutes, Serio stood. "I need to use the bathroom."
He walked toward the back of the café, moving with that easy grace he had, his long strides covering the distance quickly. He disappeared through the door marked with the simple male pictogram.
Maybe ten seconds later, Eno stood and followed.
The bathroom was surprisingly clean for a café. Multi-stall, modern fixtures, good lighting, the smell of industrial cleaner instead of the usual public-restroom funk. Serio was at the sink, washing his hands, when he actually paused and glanced around.
"Wow," he muttered to himself, genuinely surprised. "Usually bathrooms are not this clean."
The door opened behind him, and Eno walked in. The younger man approached with a kind of forced casualness, like he'd rehearsed this moment but wasn't quite pulling it off.
"Not wanting to bother you," Eno said, his voice trying for friendly but landing somewhere around nervous, "but did you use to date Leona, or were you in a relationship?"
Serio turned off the water slowly. He dried his hands on a paper towel, taking his time, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then he looked at Eno with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and mild threat—not aggressive, exactly, but not friendly either.
"And you are?" Serio said. "I mean, coming after me in the bathroom looks a little bit threatening. Should I consider you a wise college boy who talks, or should I make ready my fists?"
"What? No, no, I—" Eno stammered, his face showing that he absolutely had not expected this response.
Serio's expression shifted to something lighter, almost playful. "I was half-joking." He paused. "Not. But I don't give a single... what is in the WC right now." He gestured toward the stalls with dry humor. "And oh man, there is a lot of it." He crumpled the paper towel and tossed it in the trash. "Bye, whoever you are. Not nice meeting you."
He moved toward the door, but Eno reached out and grabbed his arm. Not aggressively—the touch was light, tentative—but serious. A young man trying to establish a boundary, trying to protect something he thought was his.
"If there is nothing between you two," Eno said, his voice firmer now, "please let it stay that way."
Serio looked down at the hand on his arm. Then he looked up at Eno's face. His expression went cold—not theatrical, not exaggerated, just genuinely cold and slightly ironic. He shook the hand off easily, like brushing away an insect.
"Get your hands away from me," Serio said. His voice was deadly calm, the tone you'd use to order a coffee. "Touch me again or speak to me again, you will understand what half-joking is."
Eno backed off immediately, his face showing that he understood he'd miscalculated badly. Serio left the bathroom without another word, without looking back.
Back at the booth, Laria was sipping her hot chocolate and watching Leona. She'd clocked the dynamic now—the history, the longing, the complicated web of feelings that existed between Serio and the shy, beautiful woman across the café. But Laria wasn't threatened. She was just observing, collecting data, understanding the landscape of the situation she'd walked into.
Serio slid back into the booth across from her, his expression unreadable.
"Everything okay?" Laria asked.
"Fine," Serio said. "Just had a conversation with—" He gestured vaguely toward the back. "—whoever that is."
Before Laria could respond, the door to the café burst open with dramatic timing.
Mia entered like she was stepping onto a stage, her heels clicking on the tile floor, her face tight with anger that had been building for at least twenty-four hours. She was dressed more seriously today than usual—still in a short skirt and heels, still with that edge of trying too hard, but the outfit was a darker color, more subdued. She scanned the room immediately, and her eyes locked onto Leona.
"The hot chocolate tastes better," Laria said quietly to Serio, not looking away from the approaching storm, "whether it is a movie or a live theater without a script in front of you."
Serio smiled—genuinely amused. "The more you talk, the more I like you."
Across the café, Mia had reached Leona's table. Her voice carried, loud enough that everyone in the café could hear if they were paying attention.
"Leona, what's wrong?" Mia demanded. "Why are you avoiding me? In college, avoiding me. In text messages, leaving them unopened. Not picking up the phone when I call you."
Leona's face was closed off, tired, like she'd already had this conversation in her head a hundred times and didn't have the energy to have it out loud. "Jon came to me and told me everything," she said. Her voice was calm but firm. "One hundred times, thank you to him. And Mia, as I said to Serio, do not even try to talk with me again. You are not my friend anymore." She stood, gathering her bag. "Come, Eno. Let's go to college."
Eno stood immediately, following her lead without question. They walked out together, the door chiming behind them, leaving Mia standing alone by an empty table.
For a moment, Mia just stood there, processing the rejection, her face cycling through emotions—hurt, anger, disbelief, the dawning realization that she'd lost everything in a single day. Then she turned, and her eyes landed on Serio and Laria sitting in the window booth, and something in her snapped.
She walked toward them fast, her heels sharp on the tile, her body language aggressive.
"So," Laria said to Serio, playful but with an edge, "any action?"
"A storm is coming," Serio replied. He wasn't looking at Mia—he was looking at the ceiling with philosophical detachment, like he was narrating a documentary about weather patterns. "A brown one. A color of deserved anger and disappointment. This is when Karma takes a ride but still comes back."
Mia reached their table. Tears were already streaming down her face—real tears, the kind that came from genuine pain, from losing a boyfriend and a best friend in the span of twenty-four hours, from realizing that all your choices had consequences and the consequences were here, now, in front of everyone.
"It's your fault," she said, her voice cracking. "All of this is your fault, you fucking fuckboy."
Serio stood up slowly, deliberately. He was calm—not angry, not defensive, just present. He pointed at the space around them, making gestures like he was pointing at trees that weren't there, creating an imaginary forest in the air.
"See and hear what I am about to say to you," Serio said. His voice wasn't shouting, but it carried—clear, deliberate, impossible to ignore. "I, SERIO, DOESN'T CARE A SINGLE LEAF ON THIS HUGE PLACE NAMED FOREST FULL OF TREES."
To the other customers in the café, it was just another debate, another drama between a guy and two girls. Nothing worth getting involved in. Nothing that required intervention.
"I lost my best friend," Mia said, her voice breaking completely now. "My boyfriend. Because of you."
Laria stood too. She positioned herself slightly in front of Serio, protective, mirroring his calm tone. "Do not ever speak again to my boyfriend," she said directly to Mia, not loud but clear and firm, "you angered negative bitch. Keep your negativity away from us."
Mia looked shocked. She didn't recognize Laria—didn't know who she was, what her connection to Serio was, why this stranger was defending him. "You are a couple now?" she said, her voice somewhere between disbelief and vindication. "Wow. You are the same, playing with people like toys."
Serio reached out and grabbed Laria's hand. He pulled her close and kissed her lips—quick, a thank you, a statement of solidarity. Then he looked up at the ceiling again, that strange, spiritual amusement on his face.
"Oh mighty Zeus," he said, "something happened and is making me laugh without even laughing physically but spiritually." He looked around for the waiter. "Waiter, bill please."
The waiter came quickly—he'd been watching the scene, waiting for it to resolve. Serio paid in cash, leaving a generous tip because he wasn't an asshole to service workers even when he was making a scene. He took Laria's hand again, and they walked out together, moving through the café with their heads high, leaving Mia standing alone among the wreckage of her own choices.
Outside, the air felt cleaner. Colder. The sun had broken through the clouds fully now, turning the grey morning into something bright and almost warm.
"Now what?" Laria asked. She was energized by the confrontation, a bit confused by how quickly things had escalated, but also excited—like she'd just been part of something dramatic and real.
"You showed a little strong sign," Serio said. He was walking fast, leading her by the hand, moving with purpose. "We are going somewhere now."
"Okay," Laria said, though there was doubt in her voice, like she wasn't entirely sure what she'd signed up for.
They walked for fifteen minutes through streets that got progressively older, more academic. The buildings here were brick and stone, institutional architecture that had been here for a century or more. Students walked in clusters, carrying backpacks and coffee cups, talking and laughing and looking young in a way that made Serio and Laria feel ancient despite only being in their late twenties.
They stopped in front of a massive structure that looked like it had been built before cars existed, before electricity, maybe before the city itself had fully formed.
The Book Place.
The exterior was industrial-old style—weathered brick walls that had been kept original, old windows with wooden frames that had been painted and repainted dozens of times over the decades. The building had three stories, each one slightly different in architecture, like they'd been added at different times over the years. There was a grandness to the entrance—woodwork that reminded Serio of Paris, of the Arc de Triomphe scaled down to human proportions, intricate carvings that suggested this place took itself seriously.
"Library?" Laria said, her confusion deepening. "I was waiting for some bar or some restaurant, but the library?"
"Not just a library," Serio said. He was looking at the building with something like reverence, like this place meant something to him that he couldn't quite articulate. "'The Book Place.' It's a library where you look around this gigantic book place and find a book. But the catch is there aren't any genre divisions. No famous author corners. No organization by year. You just see around in this three-floor library with 999 corners, find a book and a place, and then you go to your book place. Every book place has a table for two and windows to see the city."
He looked at her, making sure she understood. "Today, you and I go and find a book, then go to my book place. Next time you find your book place. Mi capisci?"
Laria blinked. "Mi what?"
"Italian," Serio said. "Means 'do you understand?'"
"Okay," Laria said, sounding like she was already getting bored with the explanation. "Let's find a book."
"Now you get bored," Serio said, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "What a shame on you, my dear. An author should never get bored with books. And to be honest, that was a shame for me too. I used to get bored reading books, and then someone brought me here, and since then it wasn't anymore boring." He looked at her seriously. "You just didn't have your place."
They pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.
The interior was like walking into a different century. The space was massive but somehow cozy, like a cathedral designed for readers instead of worshippers. Natural light flooded in through the old windows, creating pools of golden illumination that shifted throughout the day. Where there wasn't natural light, there were lamps—old ship lamps, the kind that looked like they belonged on a nineteenth-century vessel, brass and glass and oil converted to electric. Serio noticed them and smiled slightly. "Pirates know what they've been through," he muttered.
The smell hit them immediately—dust and rust and old paper, the specific scent of books that had been sitting on shelves for decades, absorbing the air and the time and the fingers of thousands of readers. It was a smell that you either loved or hated, and Laria found herself somewhere in the middle, intrigued but slightly overwhelmed.
The corners were marked by numbers—metal wire signs that started with Roman numerals (I, II, III, IV, V...) and eventually switched to Arabic numerals when the Roman system got too unwieldy (332, 333...). There were maps posted on every floor, hand-drawn and slightly faded, showing the layout of the corners and the general flow of the space. But the maps were more suggestions than instructions. The real way to navigate The Book Place was to wander, to get lost, to let the books find you instead of the other way around.
Most of the patrons were young—students, probably, or people who loved books enough to seek out a place like this instead of going to a chain bookstore. They moved through the space with quiet reverence, respecting the implied rules: Be quiet. Don't disturb. Let everyone have their own experience.
"Look for a book," Serio said, "and come to the third floor, corner 332. All corners have numbers."
"And you aren't a morning person or a running person," Laria said, laughing, "but you go around 333 corners?"
Serio didn't answer. He just headed toward the philosophy section—knew where it was without checking, had been here enough times to have the layout memorized—and started browsing. He found what he was looking for quickly, maybe three or four minutes. A book with a dark orange cover that showed an edited October calendar, stylized and artistic. He didn't show Laria the title, just tucked it under his arm like a literature professor carrying a text to class.
Laria took her time. She wandered through sections without names, past shelves organized by principles she couldn't figure out, looking at spines and covers and trying to find something that spoke to her. The system was confusing—nothing was where she expected it to be—but there was something liberating about that too, about not knowing where to look, about trusting intuition instead of logic.
Eventually, she found a book that stopped her cold. The cover was a vivid, aggressive yellow—the kind of yellow you'd see on a magazine cover, designed to grab attention from across a room. It looked funny, almost absurd, sitting among all the black and red and brown covers around it. The title was "Rainy Days" by J.J. Watson. She'd heard of Watson—a fiction author known for drama and long novellas, someone who wrote about emotional devastation with surgical precision.
The juxtaposition of the yellow cover and what she knew about Watson's work made her smile. She pulled it from the shelf and headed for the stairs.
The third floor was quieter than the first two, more intimate. Fewer people up here, just the dedicated readers who'd climbed the stairs—no elevator in The Book Place, just your legs and your determination—to find the more obscure corners, the places that required commitment.
Laria followed the wire numbers, watching them climb: 320, 325, 328, 330, 331... 332.
She turned the corner and found Serio standing in the hallway, not inside the corner itself. His expression was unreadable, his body language uncertain in a way that was unusual for him.
Laria walked up beside him and looked into corner 332.
Leona was sitting there.
The corner was exactly what Serio had described—small, intimate, just enough space for two people who wanted to read together. There was a bookshelf built into the wall, mostly empty except for a few volumes that previous visitors had left behind. A small table sat under a window, just big enough for two books and two elbows. The window itself was old, the glass slightly wavy with age, and one corner of it was broken—not shattered, just cracked enough to let fresh air seep in.
The AC in the library made most of the building too warm, that institutional temperature control that couldn't quite get it right. But here, in corner 332, the broken window created perfect balance. Cool air mixing with warm. It felt like autumn, permanent and preserved.
On the table were three books, all with matching spines. Laria could see the author name from where she stood: Claire Le Parid. A famous French fashion designer who was also a celebrated artist, someone who wrote about the evolution of painting and design with the precision of someone who'd lived it.
Next to the books was a single empty water bottle.
Leona looked up and saw Serio. Her brown eyes went wide—not with anger, just surprise, maybe embarrassment. She immediately reached for the water bottle, trying to hide it, like being caught with an empty water bottle was somehow shameful.
Serio turned around, ready to walk away, to give her the space, to not make this awkward.
"Please don't leave," Leona said. Her voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of something—not desperation, exactly, but genuine need. "This is your place. I will leave now."
She started gathering her books, moving with efficient, practiced motions.
Serio turned back to face her. "No one owns a place in the library," he said. His voice was gentle, philosophical. "If people did, what was the reason for reading in the library? And no, you don't have to go. I will find another place."
"I know I said not to talk to you," Leona said, standing now, holding her books against her chest like armor. "But you need to tell me something. Why corner 332?" She looked at him with genuine confusion. "Why come so far and not go for the 333? Why, Serio?"
Serio laughed.
Not a small chuckle. Not a polite acknowledgment. He laughed hard, genuinely, so much that tears came to his eyes. It was the laugh of someone who'd just heard the punchline to a joke they'd been setting up for years.
"Because I am a man and not a woman," he said when he could speak again. "I play with fate and not as fate plays with other people's, Leona."
"What?" Leona's confusion deepened. "Please, at last this time, finish your sentence with the full meaning of your words."
"Serio will this time," he said, his voice still carrying traces of laughter. "But only this time. A woman is never satisfied, and she would go for the 333 just to be on top, or to have the best." He gestured broadly, encompassing the entire concept. "Not only a woman, but men too are in this fate game. When people think going to the top, going to the biggest number, to the highest, to the end will give them... I don't know what. Power? Peace? Or a simple thing called calm."
He paused, looking at her directly. "But not me. I go this far just not to go to 333. And I go here because the park looks better from this angle." He pointed out the window. "And on the third floor, I can see squirrels in the tree near this side of the library."
Leona smiled despite herself—a genuine smile that softened her entire face. "That's why. As always, a meaning behind actions."
"Actions that happen without meaning are the best," Serio countered. "Remember that, Leona."
She gathered her books more carefully now, preparing to leave but not fleeing. "I am sorry that I said you do not talk to me again. I understand now. I will always be only a best friend for you, Serio, and you a best friend for me. I want to be friends again. If you want, of course. And I am sorry."
Her eyes were wet, but no tears fell. She was holding them back with visible effort.
"I know, I know, Leona," Serio said, and his voice went a bit sad, a bit understanding, like he genuinely hurt for her but couldn't give her what she wanted. "But I need time to be your friend because I want to understand how to be around you so you do not get feelings again for me."
"I understand your choice," Leona said quietly.
"Don't cry," Serio said, though she wasn't, not really.
He glanced down the hallway. Laria was standing there, maybe a meter away, watching. She'd heard the whole thing—the laugh, the explanation, the apology, the sadness. She understood more now about the man she'd agreed to live with for six months, about the complicated web of relationships he navigated, about the ways he tried to be kind while maintaining impossible boundaries.
"Laria, come," Serio said, his tone shifting back to something more casual, more formal. "This is corner 332 I told you about. This is my friend Leona." He gestured between them. "And Leona, this is my girlfriend, Laria."
It was the first time he'd used that word. Girlfriend. Not "the woman I'm helping" or "someone staying with me" but girlfriend. Laria felt the word land, felt its weight and implication. She walked over, her expression casual and formal at once, understanding that this moment required diplomacy.
"Hi, Leona," Laria said politely, extending a hand.
"Hi, Laria," Leona replied, shaking it. Her grip was brief, a bit awkward, but smooth enough. "Nice to meet you. I have to go now."
"Okay, goodbye," Laria said.
Leona gathered her three books—all those texts about art evolution and staying original while adapting to change—and left. Her footsteps echoed slightly on the wooden floor, fading as she descended the stairs.
Serio and Laria stood in corner 332 alone now. The broken window let in a breeze that smelled like autumn leaves and city air. The light was perfect, golden and soft.
"So," Serio said, turning to Laria, "what's your view on strong men and women after hearing our conversation?"
"You saw me," Laria said, realizing he'd known she was listening the whole time. "Well, I think she is strong too. Just needs some time to put in work her strength around her world."
"She is strong, Laria," Serio said seriously. "But you are too." He paused. "But I will not tell you why. Let's see what book you chose and what I chose."
Laria held up her book—the aggressive yellow cover of "Rainy Days." "I saw this book just once and picked it up at the moment. The reason? It has a yellow cover while all other books have black or red cover colors. It's by J.J. Watson. I haven't read it yet, but the title is 'Rainy Days,' and Watson is known for drama. It looked funny—the yellow cover, the title. What about you?"
Serio opened his book to the first page. The title appeared at the top: "Forgotten Days of October" by R.I. Senis. He read the first sentence aloud: "The more I am with you, the more I understand your way of doing things. Amazing and stupid at the same time."
He looked up at Laria and smiled. "Just like me when I picked this book only because it had an orange cover. It talks about a girl who wants to travel outside of the world. For her, sky isn't the limit. I like people like that." He gestured to the table. "Now let's read and see the view."
He moved to the window and pushed it open wider. The broken corner made it easy—the glass was already compromised, so opening it didn't require much force. Cool air rushed in, mixing with the warm library atmosphere, creating that perfect autumn temperature.
"Why open the window?" Laria asked.
"Let the squirrels in when they pass," Serio said, completely serious. "But you should not talk about it."
They sat at the small table, side by side, their shoulders almost touching in the confined space. Laria opened "Rainy Days" and began reading. The prose was dense, emotional, exactly what she'd expected from Watson. Serio opened "Forgotten Days of October" and started with the same focused attention.
After about five pages, Serio looked up from his book and stared out the window. Just gazed at the view—the park below, the trees with their changing leaves, the paths where tiny figures moved like pieces on a game board. He watched for maybe thirty seconds, then returned to his book.
Laria noticed. After another five pages, she tried it herself—looked up, stared out the window, let her eyes rest on something distant. It felt different than just reading straight through. It created a rhythm, a breathing space between thoughts.
She smiled.
Half an hour passed like that. Reading, pausing, looking, breathing. The kind of time that didn't feel like time, that existed outside the normal flow of minutes and hours. The kind of time that happened in libraries and museums and other places where you were allowed to just be.
Then Serio stood abruptly.
He closed his book, tucked it under his arm like a professor, and walked out into the hallway. He didn't say anything—just left, moving with purposeful steps.
"Do you suffer from an illness called 'can't fucking stay at a place without moving?'" Laria called after him, amused and slightly exasperated.
Serio didn't answer. She heard his footsteps on the stairs—going down, getting quieter, disappearing.
Laria waited. She tried to keep reading, but her focus was gone. She looked out the window, watching for squirrels that never came. She checked her phone—no messages. She waited five minutes. Then ten. Then fifteen. Then twenty.
At twenty-five minutes, she stood and went looking for him.
She walked through the third floor first, checking corners, looking down hallways. Nothing. She went to the second floor, then the first. She found the older woman with glasses who'd been sitting at a desk near the entrance.
"Excuse me," Laria said. "Did you see a tall man in black leave? About 190 centimeters, dark hair?"
The woman looked up from her book and shook her head. "Sorry, dear. Haven't seen anyone like that."
Laria understood then. He'd left. Again. Like he had with Leona at Te Embla. Like he did when things got too real or too close or when whatever was happening inside his head became too much to contain.
She gathered her yellow book—decided she wanted to take it with her, wanted to finish what she'd started—and went to check out. But the woman waved her off. "State library," she explained. "Some books are for sale, but most are free to read here. You can take that one if you want. Donation basis."
Laria left a twenty-dollar bill on the desk and walked out into the afternoon.
The sun was fully out now, bright and almost warm despite the autumn chill. She walked the thirty minutes back to Serio's house, her mind turning over the pattern she was starting to see—the sudden departures, the way he fled intimacy, the sense that there was always something happening beneath the surface that she couldn't quite access.
When she arrived at the house, the front door was unlocked.
She let herself in, moving through the familiar first floor. Everything was exactly as they'd left it that morning—coffee cups in the sink, a jacket draped over a chair. The house felt empty, but not abandoned. Just waiting.
Then she heard it.
A sound from upstairs. Rhythmic. Violent. The thud of impact, over and over, with a kind of desperate regularity.
She climbed the stairs slowly, following the sound. It was coming from Serio's bedroom.
She pushed the door open.
The heavy bag had been pulled out from under the bed and positioned in the center of the room. Serio was hitting it—no gloves, just his bare hands—with a violence that made her breath catch. His hands were red, the skin starting to bruise and crack. His knuckles were raw. But he kept going, kept hitting, kept screaming.
"Again!" Thud. "Again!" Thud. "Again!" Thud. "Again!" Thud. "Again!"
He'd been doing this for at least twenty minutes, maybe longer. His face was contorted—not with simple anger, but with something deeper and more complicated. Frustration. Self-hatred. Confusion. The expression of someone at war with himself.
Every few hits, he'd slam his forehead against the bag too, using his head as a weapon, like he was trying to knock something loose inside his skull, trying to dislodge whatever was causing him pain.
Laria stood in the doorway, terrified and heartbroken and understanding all at once. This was what happened when Serio couldn't escape himself anymore. This was what he did when the masks slipped and there was nowhere left to run.
She made a decision.
She walked across the room and wrapped her arms around him from behind, hugging him tight, pressing her face against his back. She could feel his heart hammering, feel his breathing ragged and desperate.
Serio froze. His hands stopped mid-swing. He didn't try to break free, didn't push her away. He just stopped, accepting the embrace, allowing her to hold him.
"We might not be a real couple," Laria said quietly, her voice muffled against his shirt, "but at least let me be your friend. What's wrong?"
"It's not like that," Serio said. His voice was rough, scraped raw from screaming. "It's like something you cannot understand. I will not even try to explain. Please leave me hitting this heavy bag. Can you please?"
"I thought I had a view of you as a strong man," Laria said, her arms still wrapped around him. "Are you, even if you never had to be?"
"It's funny," Serio said, and now there were tears in his eyes—just wet, not falling, held back by force of will. "Or is it ironic that both of us are weird? At least you are just on the weird side. But I, unfortunately, am more than weird."
Laria released him and went downstairs. She moved quickly—less than a minute—and returned with a glass of water. She held it out to him carefully, offering it like a peace treaty.
Serio looked at the glass. Then, with a sudden motion that made her flinch, he knocked it out of her hand. It hit the floor with a dull thud—the carpet preventing it from shattering—and spilled, creating a dark wet stain on the grey fabric.
Laria laughed.
It wasn't a nervous laugh or a scared laugh. It was understanding. Recognition. She'd been here before, in different rooms with different men, in relationships that were toxic and abusive and fundamentally broken. She understood what it looked like when someone was drowning and couldn't ask for help.
"Why laughing?" Serio demanded, confused and getting angrier. "Why move the forty-three muscles of your beautiful face? Why even try with the water? You thought water works? No. You and I aren't at the same level. I am higher."
He started laughing too, but it was manic, uncontrolled, the laugh of someone who'd lost the thread.
"You trying to laugh, you trying to cry is just a mask you put after the mask you wear in your daily life," Laria said. Her voice was steady, knowing, carrying the weight of her own experiences. "You are an illusion. And me too. You say that I am strong, but whenever I just can't do something, I find someone to help me with that. Whenever I feel bad, I need to stay with someone. I feel fear—but worry not, all do. Me, you, even Leona you think is so strong."
She moved closer to him, maintaining eye contact. "I understand you, but you don't let people understand you. Can you please let me understand you in these six months?"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pencil. Not the same brand as his expensive Graf von Faber-Castell—just a regular pencil, nothing special. But the gesture was the same, the symbolism clear.
Serio looked at the pencil and laughed—genuine this time, surprised and touched and something else he couldn't name. He offered his hand.
"Not your hand," Laria said. "But your face. On your left side."
"Whenever you want," Serio said. There was trust in his voice now, vulnerability, the opening of a door that had been locked.
She drew a small five-pointed star on his left cheek. The pencil was soft, the mark dark and clear. She worked slowly, carefully, like an artist with a subject that mattered.
"You see yourself in the mirror in the morning a lot," she said, her tone warm and genuine, almost motherly. "So in these coming days, I want whenever you see yourself in the mirror to remember you have someone. I know I am not that important, but still, you have Leona."
Serio didn't respond immediately. He just walked to the standing mirror in the corner of his bedroom—a full-length mirror with a simple wooden frame, positioned where the morning light would hit it first thing. He looked at himself: at the star on his cheek, at his red and bruised hands, at the man looking back at him with wet eyes and a face that showed too much.
In the corner of the reflection, he could see Laria standing about a meter away, her face beautiful and caring, her expression open in a way that made him feel seen in a way that was both terrifying and comforting.
He walked back to her. She was sitting on his bed now, having lowered herself down at some point during his mirror examination. He took her left hand gently—the hand with the line across the palm—and placed it on the left side of her face, mirroring the star he now wore.
"You got me from now on," he said. His voice was confident but tender, and he bent slightly to be at her level. "Even when the six-month relationship trial ends."
"A man's word," Laria asked, trying to speak like him, adopting his cadence, "or just comforting words?"
"Serio always keeps my words and promises," he said. He spoke of himself in third person—that linguistic quirk that was more than just a quirk, that hinted at something fractured, something multiple, something he didn't fully understand himself.
He touched her face with the inner sides of his fingers first, softly, tracing the line of her cheek. Then he placed his full palm against her face, warm and steady.
They looked at each other for a second—maybe two, maybe three. Time did that elastic thing again where duration became meaningless. His eyes did that thing they did, that Serio way of seeing: looking at the whole of you, then through you, then into you, a gaze that was simultaneously lovely and sexual, tender and intense, making you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"You are strong," he said quietly. "You don't need anyone to hold on. Trust me. But you will need time to understand something for a strong man and woman."
He touched her lips with his thumb, pressing gently against her bottom lip, pulling it down just slightly. He held there for three seconds—long enough for her breathing to change, for her pupils to dilate, for the atmosphere in the room to shift from consolation to something else entirely.
Then he kissed her.
This kiss was different from all the others. Not a statement. Not a thank you. Not a performance for someone else's benefit. This was connection, raw and real. This was vulnerability meeting vulnerability. This was two people who'd both worn masks their entire lives deciding, simultaneously, to drop them—just for this moment, just for each other.
The kiss was full tongue, full intention, full passion. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget where you were, that made the room fade away, that existed in its own universe where nothing mattered except the two people creating it.
When they finally broke apart, Laria looked at him, overwhelmed by everything—the violence she'd witnessed, the vulnerability he'd shown, the intimacy they'd just shared, the star on his face that matched the line on her palm, the sense that something fundamental had shifted between them.
"Now what?" she asked.
The question hung in the air between them, unanswered, full of possibility.
END OF CHAPTER 3: ILLUSIONS