And the worst part is that I’m fully aware that my sisters maybe don’t deserve it, but I can’t bring myself to stay angry as much as I want to. It’s not who I am.
I guess that makes me pathetic, but it also makes me wonder. Maybe not being me is exactly what I need. I’ve always hated the idea. Hated everything about myself so much that I would just wish—I would beg to be anyone other than me.
Beg to what? I never knew.
Just anything. Anyone. Anyone but me.
Me.Adeline.
The name tastes like ash in my mouth.
And every single time I say something. Anything. Every time I say something stupid or embarrassing and totally unnecessary. In those moments I despise myself. I curse myself, and my mind and my stupid inability to say anything useful. Because eventually, I realized that everything that leaves my mouth is useless and disappointing.
Embarrassing.
Perhaps that was letting other people’s opinions and perceptions of me win.They’re just words. But are they? Words can really be like poison, seeping into your soul until you can’t tell where their hatred ends and your self-loathing begins. And after a spell of people all making the same cruel judgments, you tend to start believing them.
And unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’ve done.
And I hate myself even more for it.
***
It’s starting to get dark.
I can’t shake the uneasy feeling as I walk alone, especially after what happened just an hour ago. But I need this job. Desperately. My hands ball into fists, trying—and failing—to stop the trembling. I grip my jumper for some sense of stability and keep moving toward the bookshop.
But as I step inside, it’s like all those thoughts evaporate, the corner of my mouth tilts up and my heart flutters at seeing something so incredibly beautiful. It’s perfect—cozy shelves crammed with books, the faint smell of paper and ink hanging in the air. Behind the desk, an older woman peers over her glasses, her eyes narrowing at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lost or just plain clueless.
Books have always been my escape, my sanctuary. I could lose myself in a story for hours. In fact, I could probably inhale entire novels in one sitting. And that’s not even an exaggeration. Just standing here feels like stepping into another world.
It’s really amazing.
Summoning the brightest smile I can manage, I walk up to the woman behind the desk. “Hi, I’m Adeline Ross,” I say, covering my words in confidence. Or at least, something similar. “I sent you a few emails.” Okay, maybe more than a few. Like… a lot. The bookshop was my last hope. Well, unless I wanted to consider—nope, not finishingthatthought.
The woman raises an eyebrow, her expression somewhere between unimpressed and mildly annoyed. “Flooded my inbox, more like,” she replies dryly. “Your persistence is quite overwhelming.”
I laugh nervously, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Sorry… ma’am.”
The woman’s face twitches, clearly irritated. Or maybe just uncomfortable.
Justwonderful.
“Sorry,” I quickly apologize, sensing her annoyance. “What… um—whatshouldI call you?”
The woman doesn’t lift her gaze from the paper she’s writing on. “Ma’am?” I add, hoping for an actual response.
Finally, she looks up again, her expression so stern, it makes me take a little step back. “Edna will do.”
“Right, Edna,” I say quickly. “What would you like me to do?”
“There are some new book arrivals that need to be shelved. Take those crates over there,” she points to a stack of boxes near the counter, “and organize them on the shelves. Fiction is on the left, non-fiction on the right. And mind the alphabetical order.”
“Got it,” I say with a smile.
Approaching the crates, I quickly identify an issue. The crates are practically glued together. I tug at the top one, but it doesn’t budge. It feels like I’m moving a boulder right now. My arms strain as I pull harder, but the only thing I’m moving is my dignity—straight to rock bottom.
Edna clearly failed to inform me of the weight of these crates. Who does she think I am? Superwoman?
