Is there a way to differentiate between love and Stockholm syndrome?

"You're an author?" I asked without hiding my surprise.

Natha looked at me, also in surprise. "You didn't know?"

Zia too, looked at me in surprise. "You didn't know?!"

Hey—am I supposed to? Wait...was that why she always holed up in the library? Not just because she was engrossed in reading novels? Or was she like them so much that she started to write one on her own?

"Why don't you know? I gave you my book!" Zia pouted, hands on her hips.

"...when?"

"It's on that group of books I brought you the first time!"

What time? Which one? Those books about brides? Are you kidding me? Did she even know anything about brides and marriage? Or love for that matter?

"I...don't read those kinds of..." I confessed awkwardly. She gasped at that, as if I just betrayed her or something, before sinking herself into the couch with her cookie jar while sulking.

It made me curious and I shifted closer to Natha, asking in a whisper. "Which books did she write?"