Page 32 of Laced in Longing

My heart quickens at the thought of seeing her again. Of speaking to her—truly speaking, not just in dreams but in her waking reality. Will she be frightened? Likely. Will she reject me again? Possibly. But with each interaction, the layers between us thin. With each token and visit, she ventures closer to remembering who she truly is.

What we are to each other.

The giddy anticipation that floods my chest is unfamiliar—not an emotion I experience often in my endless existence. I allow myself to revel in it and savor the rare taste of hope that sweetens my thoughts after centuries of patience and disappointment.

Tonight, I will tell her more of the truth. Not everything—her fragile mind couldn’t bear the full weight of it yet—but enough to plant the seed of recognition. Enough that she begins to question not just my existence, but her own.

I press my lips to the dried peony, a blessing and a promise, before carefully closing the book. With the flower cradled in my palm like a living heart, I approach the veil between worlds, ready to cross once again into the realm where my flower blooms, unaware of the vastness of her own nature.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MAVEN

Ihate Mondays. All the pointless weight of existence feels heavier when my alarm blasts at dawn, signaling the start of another workweek where I pretend to be a functioning human. But today? Today stretches beyond the standard Monday misery into something else entirely.

Everyone at work has forgotten I exist.

Not in the metaphorical way I’m used to—no, this is different. When I arrived at the office this morning, fumbling with my keycard at the security gate, the guard—who’s seen me every weekday for over a month—watched me with blank confusion.

“Can I help you find someone?” he asked before studying me with the careful assessment reserved for potential threats.

“I work here,” I replied, voice flat. “Maven Talmay. Accounts receivable.”

His eyes widened, a peach hue coloring his pale cheeks. “Right, of course. Sorry about that, Ms. Talmay. Must need more coffee.”

I brushed past him, chalking it up to early Monday brain fog. But then Nadia passed me in the hallway, did a double-take, and asked if I was lost. Chris from my neighboring cubicle introduced himself as if we haven’t spent forty hours a week sitting three feet apart. Even my direct supervisor asked what department I was from when I delivered my weekly report.

By lunch, my stomach twisted into such tight knots I couldn’t eat. I sat alone, as usual, but this time watching coworkers’ eyes slide over me like I was made of smoke. Each time, I’d catch them doing that slight head tilt of recognition when I made deliberate eye contact, their faces scrunching before their eyes widened, followed by awkward, mumbled apologies.

Was this some elaborate prank? Make the weird, depressed girl think she’s actually invisible? Hilarious. Except nobody in this office knows me well enough to orchestrate something this coordinated, or would care enough to try.

By four o’clock, I couldn’t take it anymore. The pressure behind my eyes built with each passing hour—why are their reactions so different than the dismissal I’m so used to? I gathered my things and left without speaking to anyone, certain none of them would notice or remember my absence anyway.

Now, I stand in my apartment’s small bathroom, hot water streaming down my shoulders. My knuckles whiten as I press my palms against the shower wall, wondering if I’m actually disappearing.

I kind of like the idea.

The water cools before I finally step out, wrapping myself in the only decent towel I own. Well, the only towel I own. My skin prickles from the chill of the space, and I tug on my most worn sweatpants, the ones with the fraying waistband and permanent softness from a hundred washes. I’ve had these for years, and at this point, they’re my most prized possession.

My fingers brush over the fabric of various shirts before settling on an oversized black t-shirt so old the band logo has cracked and faded into illegibility.

Comfort clothes. Armor against whatever the fuck is happening to me.

I pad across the small space to the window, cracking it open, and shivering as the frigid February air rushes in. Notes of fresh snow and exhaust waft in with the breeze. It helps ground me; these ordinary smells of city life continuing, unaware of my existential crisis.

My gaze finds the jar of dried flowers on my dresser. It’s almost full now, which sends a sharp pain through my abdomen. I don’t have another jar for when this one overflows.

I huff and turn away, snatching my e-reader from beside my bed. What I need is escape—not into sleep where he might be waiting, but into another world entirely. Something with dragons or magic or people whose problems make mine seem mundane by comparison.

Sighing, I settle onto my unmade bed, balancing the e-reader on my knees as the screen lights up, glowing faintly in the dimming afternoon. I browse my digital library: hundreds of books, all neatly contained in this slim device that weighs less than a paperback. While I will always prefer physical books, this is practical and portable. Perfect for someone who moves as often as I do.

But I do miss real books. The weight of them in my hands. The way you can feel your progress through the story by the shifting balance of pages from right to left. The sound each page makes when it’s flipped, and that soft whisk of paper against paper. And the smell.

God, the smell of books.

New ones with that crisp, chemical tang—part ink, and part glue. Always the faintest tint of wood. Old ones with their musty darkness are a second favorite. Even Library books with their particular scent of other people’s hands, distant places, and time passing in quiet rooms. I miss all of it.

Sometimes I wander into bookstores or libraries just to run my fingertips along spines; to lift a volume and press my nose to the center crease, breathing in that papery universe. It’s the closest thing to religion I’ve got.