- 19 On a moving train (3)

[Background Music: Mark Wilkinson - I'm on fire]

One month into the relationship

Out of the blue, she noticed two familiar figures. She asked her friend Margarita—Rita for short—if they were in the same class.

One was Rita's ex-boyfriend. His harsh features did not inspire confidence. She didn't know if he recognized her, only that his presence made her uncomfortable.

He was probably a good-looking boy many girls coveted. He was beautiful, very beautiful indeed, armed with a nice personality - but not her type, making interaction difficult. Their lack of affinity spoke volumes. Attraction would have required similar ways of thinking, feeling and acting—all of which were absent.

She had nothing to say to him and didn't want to be there anyway. She blamed her other friend for refusing to accompany her.

Earlier at the restaurant, Rita's daughter had added salt to injury: "Marie-Rose relates so well to everyone, even strangers." In her mind, she scolded the girl, questioning if she knew the pain it cost to cultivate this personality she hated yet couldn't shed.

Despite her social skills, interacting with Rita's ex was pure torment.

Among Rita's friends was a dancing aficionado, so they changed locations to a dance hall. Here, in this location where she met this boy who must have been beautiful. She couldn't tell.

Her mind lingered on someone else. A beautiful boy with hypnotic eyes.

What was he doing now? She just wanted to know he was alright. His face was a blur in her mind, she was never able to reconstruct it with her inner eyes, his eyes the only distinct feature—seductive yet tender.

Yet here she was with Rita's friends instead of the one her heart longed for.

When it grew too late and tiring to stay awake, she noticed the odd stare of the boy she'd just met watching as she left. It was an intriguing plot point for a novel but not her love story.

***

The platform was cold and empty.

As she paced, a familiar presence approached. He drew near with determined steps, cornering her against a pillar and drawing her into his jade stone gaze.

He wasn't much taller, just a head above. She studied his reddened eyes while his familiar vanilla ice-cream scent enchanted her. He seemed drunk, but she smelled no alcohol—just sweet inebriation.

His low, nasal voice sounded congested, as if he might blow his nose at any moment. He had cried, a light sparked inside her mind.

How could this tough rebel have shed tears? Wasn't he the one that went against the world?

Besides his unusual look, he met her every requirement for trust. A chance encounter, both betrayed by loved ones—perfect partners in crime.

After she had confided about her experience, he'd offered to watch her back. They'd met on a train, and he'd noticed her crying.

Right now, she desperately needed the comfort of his embrace, to feel one with him. But they weren't yet close enough.

Regardless, time was not their ally.

"Stay another night!" he whispered in her ear. It was Sunday—she'd been home just for the weekend.

"You know I can't. I work Monday," she replied. A beautiful, convenient excuse. Truthfully, she feared accepting the invitation, unsure of his expectations.

She feared that if she accepted his invitation to stay the night, he may interpret it as consent to be intimate. In her experience, some men assumed agreement to sleep over was the same as agreeing to sleep together. She refused to be prey anymore. Her next relationship would be serious.

Besides, on the other hand, she couldn't invite him over with her parents home.

Somehow he'd found out she was in town. But didn't they all?

He was here only to see her off. And yet, he had come in the end.

The one who met her on the platform was none other than Jayden. They were one month into their long-distance relationship—about 300 km apart.

Home just for the weekend, last night she was too distressed to meet Jayden. 

She had desperately wanted to see Jayden the other night, when he'd been in town where she worked, just to be near him. But she had missed the opportunity, even though she missed him.

Instead, she had unwillingly crossed paths with the one who followed her. Marie-Rose had hoped to confront him, to find clarity.

The feelings Jayden evoked confused her. Her recent past made her incapable of loving again, of feeling anything for a man.

Jayden was someone she envisioned a relationship with, but wanted to take it slowly to avoid getting burned. She was sure she could never love him the way he deserved. She thought she didn't love him at all, only his sweet face and rebellious spirit. Their connection seemed to lack love.

They probably wouldn't last, but she no longer cared for love. Better to pretend than be played again. And stalked. She only wanted a physical relationship—love was off the table. She didn't even know if he believed in magic, working in the military. He likely saw it as fantasy. But she sensed an openness in him and would have loved to initiate him. If not, a purely physical relationship suited her fine.

Her friendship with Rita had started on similar grounds. Though Rita dyed her hair red, she resembled a witch. The term was offensive given how ordinary people used it pejoratively. Yet Marie-Rose called her fellow sorceresses 'witches' for ease of pronunciation.

Gauging Rita's magical compatibility was difficult, but Marie-Rose tried, for the sake of Rita's new boyfriend and Marie-Rose's friend.

Jayden handed her a letter without a word. She understood its discreet nature and simply opened it.

The yellow, blue-lined paper held beautiful handwriting. Judging by the powerful, graceful strokes, a man had penned this—Jayden. It was addressed to her as "Darling."

She repeated the word to herself. "Oh Jayden, do I mean something to you?" Looking at his gorgeous features, she struggled to believe this Greek god could harbor real feelings for any woman, let alone her, plain as she was. His physique oozed hormones—younger than her, it was only normal. Yet more ardent than other men his age.

In truth, Marie-Rose was lovely. Sea green eyes shone luminously in a fair face. Her natural red hair lacked the artificial carrot tint of dye jobs. Its vibrance evoked autumn leaves. Currently a fashionable brown with reddish accents, certain lighting brought out incredible red highlights that flickered like fire.

While slim, her curves filled out an alluring silhouette that compensated for her petite frame. Toned muscles from gym workouts further enhanced her shape. She wasn't model-tall but came within a couple centimeters.

"I found out you were at the dance hall. Someone close saw you there. Don't worry, I'm not following you or spying," she read, holding her breath. Last night he'd only complained she didn't tell him she was visiting. This "someone close" irritated her, though Jayden said he had no girlfriend. Why feel jealous?

"I'm sorry if I...took you too abruptly... on the phone," she continued reading, fragment by fragment, incredulous. "I was just upset you didn't tell me you were here. Did you not want to meet me?" She had wanted to see him desperately, just hadn't mentioned it on the phone.

She knew her phone was tracked. Suspected for months but only confirmed the other night.

Now he seemed to be confirming: "Please don't worry, I'm not the one you need to fear. But I learned who spies on you and why."

He hadn't raised his voice last night, simply asked directly in a gentle voice: "What are you doing, shorty? Thought I wouldn't find out you're here?"

They'd exchanged terse replies as she indicated this wasn't a phone conversation. She'd voiced reproaches to silence him.

Meeting today had been unplanned, but he knew how to find her—knew her too well already.

She couldn't confess she'd come because she had been afraid to confront her stalker. That had been her initial intention. She'd wanted clarity so she could move on.

Yet her frozen senses and traumatized state had interfered. She failed to understand his motives, taking refuge in solitude instead, in her hometown.

The letter continued explaining. "Their names are Emilian and Daniel." Just as she suspected—from her gov org, regarding her sorcery and a special operation. No wonder.

Yes, politics and corporations were involved. So Jayden knew now she was a witch.

These people also hated Jayden, like they hated the other one, Alexandre. Perhaps suspecting the latter's involvement since she often discussed her novels with friends. They likely mistrusted everyone in her social circles.

Despite her ordeal, she had tried to reconnect with Alexandre. But his odd behavior only estranged her further.

Jayden's arms were more comforting, his eyes beautiful mirrors for her weary soul.

"Will you stay one more night?" he asked again, calmly.

She had much to share with him and had to take the risk. He was no mere distraction.

Yet it was delicate with him being younger. And sickening, not knowing if this was right. The scandal had already ravaged her—what if this only made things worse?

But they had waited long enough, with so little time anyway.

Gazing into his eyes, she asked, "But you promise nothing I don't want will happen?" She held his stare. Surprise flashed across his face.

"Of course."

She no longer cared if those bastards heard them. They lived parallel lives—those rotten ideas had no purchase here.

They hated Jayden for his youth and beauty that drew women. His success, despite poverty also spawned contempt. He was rich without the money.

Then Jayden made a better proposition:

"How about I come to Constance with you instead?"

Her eyes flickered approval.