Literature has its merits

As I walk away from the corner store, the older woman's words echo in my head, each syllable pressing harder into my chest. You'd be wonderful for him.

I recall him now—the unpleasant stranger in the café. His pointed look, scathing remarks, and arrogance appeared to permeate every syllable. He had fire, that's for sure, but it wasn't the sort that made me want to lean in; it was the kind that made me want to take a step back and make sure I wasn't in the way.

But now, when I consider what the woman said about her grandson, Alexander, something shifts. Could there actually be more to him than the cynical, irritable persona he presents? Could there be something beneath the bravado that no one else has noticed?

I shake my head, hoping to dislodge the thoughts. I do not need to be thinking about him, especially not right now. Bigger things are going on in my life right now, including navigating the storm my father unleashed during the dinner and the fallout that is still looming over me. I need to keep my distance from all of this and avoid getting caught up in another complicated mess. I do not want to get married yet.

Even so, as I roam through the chaotic streets, my thoughts spiral back to Alexander. I can't help but wonder if he truly is as lost and alienated as his grandmother claims. Is there a way to reach him? To understand him?

The question nags at me, but I don't know the answer. All I know is that I need to find some clarity—something or someone to root me in this chaos before it consumes me.

As I cross the street, a honking automobile brings me back to reality, and I stumble onto the sidewalk, my heart racing. Focus, Sophia. There is no place for interruptions. Not from Alexander Hayes, my father, or anyone else.

But that concept seems empty. I've recently been treading a fine line between who I've been told to be and who I might want to be. Alexander feels like another question mark in a life already full of them. In direct contrast to Carter's expected charm and my father's oppressive expectations.

I stand at a small bookstore, the aroma of ink and paper billowing out as the door swings wide. Without thinking, I walk inside. The bell above the door jingles quietly, and the tumult of the outer world fades to a soothing hum.

Bookshelves tower over me, their spines forming a mosaic of stories and voices. I run my fingers along the edge of a shelf, feeling the textured covers beneath my fingertips. Literature has its merits. Mr. Mayfield's voice echoes in my memory, condescending and dismissive. He'd never understand the comfort of this place, the quiet defiance of immersing yourself in a story that doesn't finish with a contract or a handshake at a golf club.

I roam aimlessly till I see a familiar title. Wuthering Heights1. A narrative about chaos, desire, and stubborn souls. Without hesitation, I take it off the shelf and flip over its pages, the words igniting something deep inside me.

"Looking for answers?" The voice surprises me; it is low and has a sense of comedy. When I look up, my breath catches.

Alexander Hayes stands a few yards away, his arms crossed and resting comfortably on a nearby shelf. He seemed out of place in this relaxed setting, like a wolf hunting a meadow. His piercing gaze moves over the book in my hands before meeting mine.

"Don't tell me you're a fan of Heathcliff," he adds, his grin twisting at the edges.

I snap the book shut and glare at him. "He's misunderstood."

He chuckles, the sound harsh and unusually warm. "Fair enough. "If you want something more grounded..." He moves over to a nearby shelf and grabs a book I don't recognize before offering it to me. The Stranger by Albert Camus2.

I accept it, casting a wary glance at him. Let me guess. "Do you recognize yourself in this?"

"Maybe," he says, his smirk dissolving into something more restrained. "Or maybe I thought you might."

His words linger, a challenge hovering between us. I look down at the book, its simple cover offering no clues. When I look up, he's already moving toward the door, his hands deep in his pockets.

"Enjoy your book, Mia,3" he says over his shoulder, the bell jingling as he steps outside.

I watch him go, the pull of curiosity tightening its grip. What does he see in me, and why does it feel like he's daring me to find out?

The question weighs heavily on my mind as I pay for the books and return to the crowded street. I stand on the crowded sidewalk, holding the books to my chest as the city hums around me. The interaction with Alexander has left me with a mixture of annoyance and intrigue. What is it about him? He's arrogant, obnoxious, and overconfident—but there's something in his eyes, in the way he spoke to me, that felt... genuine. Raw, even.

I look down at the cover of The Stranger. The harsh title stares back at me, and I'm curious whether Alexander handed it to me as a joke, a challenge, or something else entirely. In any case, it feels like a thread is pulling at my mind, unraveling something I can't quite identify.

As I circulate through the busy streets, the city feels different. Sharper. Brighter. It's as if the edges of everything have come into focus, and I'm seeing it all for the first time. My pace quickens, not because I'm racing, but because there's an energy in me that I can't contain—a want to do something, to be more than a passive observer of my own existence. And I can't help but feel as if, whether I want to or not, I've walked into another story. One I'm not sure how to finish.