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It's just Alarik. Relax.

We both watched as the butterfly fluttered down the hallway and settled on one of the golden painting frames, where it slowly fanned its wings.

“Its existence is limited to Blairville. Nowhere else does this species of butterfly occur,” Alarik hesitated, staring at the butterfly as if something were on his mind. “To this day, I wonder what draws these enigmatic creatures here. Especially at a time of year like this.”

It was January. Indeed, a peculiar time for butterflies...

“It seems as out of place as I am,” I quipped, which was the truth.

Alarik’s gaze shifted from the butterfly to me, and his eyes seemed to fill with concern.

He stepped toward me, studied me, then the painting I had just been staring at, then me again.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, stopping two feet in front of me, his voice hoarser than usual, and it threw me off balance, because it sounded far too gentle. So gentle, in fact, that I realized I had been suppressing tears that were now welling up, and I had to fight hard to hold them back.

“Yes...” I began but faltered. “I...”

Maybe my mistake was to stare into his green ivy lakes. Because even though I knew it was absurd, it was as if his intense eyes were drilling into me, searching for a truth that wasn't meant to be his burden.

My hands clenched the strap of my leather backpack.

Alarik's gaze lingered on my hands.

Damn it, Bayla.

“I was downtown,” I said much too quickly and wanted to slap myself. “With Emely's Jeep...”

His gaze wandered from my hands back to my eyes, lingering there, searching.

Something told me he knew full well that I was lying. But then why did his eyes wander back to mine? Why couldn't I shake the feeling that our eyes were being more honest with each other than they should be?

Heat rushed to my cheeks and I silently cursed myself for being so bad at lying.

“You were looking for me?” I continued hastily, forcing myself to smile, which did absolutely nothing to hide my nervousness.

He nodded slowly, rubbing his temple with his index and middle fingers before pulling out a key and turning toward the door to his apartment.

Curiosity overwhelmed me, even though I had the feeling he was not quite himself at this moment. He was probably tired, exhausted from all the responsibilities he carried, and the last thing I wanted was to bother him.

“Wait a minute,” he said and disappeared through the door, only to reappear in the doorway a few seconds later.

“Here.” He handed me something. “The book you couldn't find in the library.” His warm, subtle Alarik smile appeared on his lips, and I hesitantly accepted the fragile-looking hardcover book that I had actually been looking for for an hour. “I just wanted to give it to you quickly.”

“Thank you,” I stammered, delighted and at the same time astonished that he simply lent me his private original edition of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist.

“Don't mention it.”

When I looked up, he was leaning in the doorway with both hands in his pockets, the hint of a gentle smile on his lips.

I returned it, but my eyes wandered back to his, which still seemed to be searching for something in mine. There was an emotion in his gaze unlike any I had encountered before, yet it felt… elusively familiar.

With growing confusion and an achingly overwhelming sensation in my chest that didn't belong there, I tried to avoid the gleam in his green. A gleam too watery to express serenity, and yet too controlled to come close to melancholy.

Pity, Bayla. That’s all you’ll find in the eyes of those you meet in this town. Pity for the confused, helpless human who doesn’t belong in such a dark place.

I should look away, let him know that everything was fine, but instead I supressed a swallow, clinging to the book in my hands while fighting hard against the urge to stare, too overwhelmed by the thought that his gaze might truly read even a fraction of the scattered arrangement of fragile, encrusted threads deep inside me that had neither a beginning nor an end. An intricate tapestry of pain I was hiding safely and deeply within myself. From others. From myself.

I was no labyrinthine tome, no ancient, fragile historical text whose cryptic writing needed to be deciphered. And yet, in that moment, I felt exactly like that.