Our fallen souls [EN] (High Enough) : VOLUME 1

15 - Joséphine

That night, as I lay in bed, I could hardly sleep. I miss the soothing calm and serenity of my uncle's home. Memories of our time together haunt me, and I feel helpless away from him. My mind is in turmoil, tormented by a multitude of thoughts. I've finally dared to admit to Blake that I care about him, and this seems to arouse more interest from him than I could have imagined. I'm still wondering about the state I found him in last night and the identity of the person who was his "victim".

The next morning, in the cafeteria, Clyde sits down next to me.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I answer mechanically, preferring to keep my worries to myself. I'm used to hiding behind reassuring smiles to avoid revealing my weaknesses, but in reality, nothing's really right. My mind is cluttered with worries. Between Joeyy, missing my uncle, the conflicting emotions Blake arouses in me and the ghosts of the past that resurface, I feel overwhelmed.

"What's this?" asks Clyde, pointing at my arms.

Shit, what an idea to put me in a dress.

"It's nothing serious, I used to hurt myself a lot when I was little. I was a real daredevil," I answer quickly, trying to minimize the importance of these marks from the past.

But Clyde's no fool, he knows there's more behind these scars. He may be trying to help me, but I prefer not to dwell on the subject, to protect both my past and his tranquility.

I decide to change the subject for both our sakes.

"Do you know who your brother was supposed to see last night?"

Clyde seems to know the answer, but refuses to tell me. Just then, Peter approaches us cautiously, and seeing the bandages on his face, I understand without confirmation that he was Blake's "victim" last night.

"Why Peter?"

"Jo... please, mind your own business. My brother has his stories, just as you have yours. Stop taking an interest in him and his problems. He hates it too," he retorts dryly. Clyde's remark hurts me slightly, because it's rare to see him be so direct. I know he's not doing it to hurt me, but to protect me. He doesn't want me to get involved in his brother's business and risk hurting me. Before the tension between us becomes more palpable, Cassie and Peter arrive to our rescue. They join us at the table, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between Clyde and me.

"Hey, how are you? You look weird," remarks Cassie in her usual straightforward way, after kissing Clyde on the cheek.

"Yeah, everything's fine," I lie again with a forced smile.

The dark look Peter gives Clyde confirms that he's not responsible for his brother's injuries. I'm now convinced that Blake is the cause.

I sense that Clyde has noticed my scrutinizing gaze, as he tenses slightly. He knows I'm making connections and drawing conclusions about the previous day's events. Just as we were talking about Blake, he passes by us without so much as a glance. He's wearing a black hoodie that partly hides his face, but I recognize him by his confident gait, without turning around. Part of me wants to catch up with him, to confront him with his actions, but another part knows this could create more problems.

The unease persists between Clyde and me, but we're interrupted by Cassie and Peter, who draw us into a lighter conversation.

*

I've got fifteen minutes before my chore with Blake, so I decide to take a trip to the campus bookshop. I'm surprised I haven't been there yet, because I've loved reading since I was a little girl. Diving into a book with a hot chocolate or mint tea is my escape when I'm feeling sad or preoccupied.

As I enter the bookshop's large building, the smell of old books catches me. Surely they must have some classic literature, some must-have books. Majestic marble staircases lead up to the second floor. I'm fascinated by the beauty of this bookshop and the atmosphere it exudes. As a bookworm, I feel right at home here.

I head for the classics section. As I pass the counter where books are borrowed, the old lady smiles at me before returning to her duties. I wonder if it's that obvious that I'm a bit lost here.

Once on the shelf, I let my fingers brush over each book. Some are old, with a patina of history, while others are more recent. My eye is drawn to a collector's copy of "Wuthering Heights". I've already read it, but that doesn't stop me from picking it up a second time. I grab it by the top and slide it into my hand. I flip through a few pages and reread some of the book's passages with relish.

"So he will never know how I love him; and that, not because he is beautiful, but because he is more myself than I am."

"Brontë?" asks a voice I'd recognize in a thousand.

I look up and catch a glimpse of Blake's eyes between two shelves. He's standing in the aisle behind mine. I carefully close the book in my hands, hoping to look comfortable. "It's good to see you have a modicum of literary culture," I remark as I turn on my heels and head for the counter.

"A pleasure to see that you know how to read," he adds mischievously with a smirk.

Despite appearances, I know he's not devoid of sensitivity. He has this fascinating duality between a sharp temperament and a lighter, more playful side. Maybe that's what makes him so attractive, but also so confusing.

I don't understand why he insists on being mean to everyone and keeping to himself. He hides his emotions behind scathing retorts, as if he wanted to push everyone around him away. Yet there are moments when I've been able to glimpse another side of him, a part of his vulnerability that he tries so hard to hide.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him curiously, putting my book down on the counter but keeping an eye on him. He rests his forearm on the counter, leaning back slightly as he turns his body towards me. His gaze is intense, but he emanates a certain warmth that I hadn't felt in our previous interactions. I feel drawn into his eyes, as if I can't tear myself away from them.

"You've noticed that I hang out here a lot, haven't you?"

I feel slightly embarrassed to have been discovered observing him, but I'd rather not show it.

"No, I didn't."

We leave the bookshop, and the fresh air outside seems to ease tensions. Yet, Blake's presence beside me prevents me from feeling totally at ease. For a moment, I thank him for not asking me about last night; I clearly don't have the strength to face the question.

"Emily Brontë is typically your kind of literature," he remarks as we walk along.

"So, you've already read her works?"

His smile fades, and I feel a sort of wall coming between us. "Nah, it just shows," he replies briefly.

I'm puzzled by his refusal to open up further. It's true that our exchanges were often marked by palpable tension, but there are also those fleeting moments when I feel a connection between us, as if we're on the verge of mutual understanding. Yet, he prefers to keep his emotions buried deep inside, preferring to hide behind a detached attitude.

We enter the building where we're to do our work in a heavy calm. We stop in front of the room, waiting for someone to open the door and provide us with all the necessary equipment. For that brief moment, Blake avoids my gaze, but I'm unable to take my eyes off his face. There's something about him that attracts me: his square jaw, his cheeks slightly rosy from the coolness outside, his lips reddened by his incessant biting, and his messy hair that gives him an enigmatic charm I can't explain.

"Joséphine, you can't. Remember what the other bastard did to you. He'll do the same to you," I repeat to myself mentally.

I pull myself together and finally take my eyes off him. My mind is racing, trying to fight this fascination that's pushing me towards him, despite the reasonable warnings echoing in my head.

"Stop staring at me," he says, plunging his brown eyes into mine.

I look down, regaining control of my emotions.