A Fictional Love Story

Lia: A Helping Hand

I couldn't stop thinking about Red. Not in the usual, romanticized way I had imagined characters like Ten, but in a frustrating, puzzling way. Red was different—cold, detached, but somehow always present, like a shadow I couldn't escape. Our conversations were short, often clipped, and left me feeling more confused than anything. Yet, I found myself drawn to him again and again.

Maybe it was the way he looked so much like Ten, I don't really know. 

With each interaction, though, it became clearer that Red was no Ten. He didn't have Ten's brooding, hidden depth. No, Red was just... distant. But there was something about that distance, something that made me want to close the gap, to figure him out.

It started happening more often. Our paths crossed at university, sometimes in the library where I worked part-time, other times at the bookstore where we both lingered until closing time.

One afternoon, as I was shelving books at the library, I spotted him sitting at one of the back tables. He didn't seem to notice me at first, engrossed in some sketches on his notebook. But the moment I stepped closer, he glanced up, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual, though my heart was beating a little faster than usual.

"Hey," he replied, his tone indifferent as always.

I stood there for a moment, awkwardly shifting the stack of books in my arms. Part of me wanted to keep walking, to leave him to his sketches, but the other part—curiosity, maybe—kept me rooted in place.

"Design project?" I asked, nodding toward the sketches in front of him.

He didn't respond right away, his eyes flicking down to his notebook before looking back up at me. "Yeah."

I wasn't sure if I should press further, but something inside me urged me to. "Do you ever need help? With research or something? I mean, I work here, so..."

Red's expression didn't change, but he tilted his head slightly, as if considering my offer. "I'm good, thanks."

Of course. What was I expecting? A deep conversation about the intricacies of his project? I felt the familiar pang of disappointment, but I shrugged it off, offering him a tight smile before turning back to my work.

The next time I saw him was a few days later, at the bookstore again. It was late, the lights inside dimming as the closing hour approached. I had spent the better part of my evening browsing aimlessly, avoiding the thought of my unfinished thesis waiting at home. When I saw Red standing near the fiction section, flipping through a thick hardcover book, I felt that same pull to approach him.

"You're always here late," I said, walking up beside him. The book in his hands was one I had read before—dense, philosophical, not the kind of thing you'd read for fun.

"So are you," he replied without looking at me, turning a page with deliberate slowness.

I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. "Touché. What are you reading?"

He finally glanced at me, the smallest hint of amusement in his eyes. "It's not your usual fantasy stuff, that's for sure."

I rolled my eyes, trying not to let his coldness get to me. "Hey, fantasy has depth too, you know."

Red shrugged, closing the book and sliding it back onto the shelf. "If you say so."

I felt a flicker of frustration. He wasn't like Ten, not at all. Ten would've engaged in a lively debate, talked about the symbolism or the deeper meaning behind the pages. Red just didn't seem to care.

"So," I said, trying to change the subject, "you study at the same university as me, right? How's your thesis going?"

His expression hardened slightly, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. "It's fine."

I couldn't tell if he was brushing me off because he was actually busy or because he just didn't want to talk to me. Either way, the conversation was slipping away from me again, just like it always did.

"Mine's a mess," I admitted, hoping to find some common ground. "I'm struggling with the research part. Waste management strategies sound simple, but it's way more complex than I thought."

For a second, I thought he might ignore me, but then he sighed and said, "What's your topic exactly?"

I blinked, surprised he had asked. "Environmental impact of solid waste management in urban areas. It's supposed to be focused on sustainability solutions, but the data's a nightmare to sort through."

He leaned back against the shelf, crossing his arms. "You need better sources. I can show you a few places I use for my research."

I hadn't expected that. "Really? That'd be great."

Red nodded, but the coolness in his demeanor never left. Even as he offered to help, there was a distance, a wall I couldn't quite break through. He was nothing like Ten, with his intensity and hidden vulnerability. Red was a puzzle, but one with pieces that didn't seem to fit.

As the days passed, I saw more and more of Red. We exchanged brief conversations at the library, often when I was on shift and he came in to study. Our talks were never deep, never more than surface level, but there was something about the regularity of it that kept me intrigued.

One afternoon, I was seated behind the library's front desk, trying to focus on some research for my thesis. Red walked in, as usual, but instead of heading to his usual table, he came up to the desk.

"You said you needed help with sources, right?" he asked, his tone as neutral as ever.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah, actually. I'm stuck on some data for waste management."

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through something before showing me a website. "Try this. They've got good case studies on sustainability projects. It might help."

I stared at the screen, surprised by his unexpected help. "Thanks, Red. This is... really helpful."

He nodded, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Don't mention it."

But as soon as he said that, the coldness was back. He turned away before I could say anything else, walking to his usual spot without a second glance. I watched him go, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and frustration. He was helping me, sure, but there was still that distance. Still that cold, indifferent attitude.

Ten would never be like this, I thought, almost bitterly. Ten would've stayed, talked, opened up. But Red? He was a closed book, one I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to read.

I spent the rest of the evening poring over the sources Red had recommended, and to my surprise, they were exactly what I needed. The data I'd been struggling to find was laid out clearly, and I finally felt like I could make some progress on my thesis. But even as I worked, my mind kept drifting back to Red.

Why did he help me? He clearly wasn't interested in talking or getting to know me, so why go out of his way to offer assistance? The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.

That night, I sat in bed, the last few pages of The Story of Ten open in front of me. I had been avoiding the ending, not wanting the story to be over. But now, as I read the final words, I felt a strange sense of closure. Ten's journey had been intense, emotional, full of meaning. But Red? Red was still a mystery, one I wasn't sure I'd ever solve.

I closed the book, letting out a long breath. Maybe I was looking for something that wasn't there. Maybe Red was just... Red. Cold, distant, and uninterested. And maybe I needed to stop comparing him to the characters in my books.

But even as I thought that, I knew it wasn't that simple.