Unwritten Obsession - Joe Goldberg

Chapter Two: Glimpse Of A Ghost

Joe

The following Saturday, I find myself wandering the aisles of Libris & Co. with no real purpose. It's past noon, and Juliet hasn't shown up. The hum of the street outside, the soft rustle of pages—all of it feels muffled, duller somehow.

It's ridiculous. I know it's ridiculous. One conversation with her, barely a few words exchanged, and here I am, waiting for her like some lovesick character out of a paperback romance. But there's something about her—something that makes me feel as if knowing her could be the answer to questions I didn't even know I was asking.

When the bell finally jingles, I feel it in my bones before I even look up. I don't turn right away, just glance casually over my shoulder, watching as she slips inside. Today, her hair is tucked into a loose braid, and her coat is gone, replaced by a simple, charcoal-gray sweater that swallows her figure. She's carrying a worn canvas bag, hugging it close as she heads to the far corner of the store, the fiction section.

I busy myself with restacking a pile of biographies, giving her space. She doesn't know me yet—really know me—and I don't want her to feel the weight of my attention. Not just yet.

Minutes pass, and I watch from the edge of my vision as she browses. This time, she's taking her time. She lingers on each book, running her fingers down spines, occasionally pulling one from the shelf to glance at the back cover before returning it. She's not as cautious today, not as withdrawn. There's a subtle ease to her movements that wasn't there before, and I wonder if it has something to do with the way she clutched that Sylvia Plath book last time, like it was an anchor.

Finally, she pauses, pulling out a copy of Wuthering Heights. The edges are frayed, the cover battered and barely clinging on. She opens it carefully, her eyes softening as she reads the first page, and something about her expression strikes me. It's a look of recognition, of quiet pain, like she's reading her own story, hidden between the lines of someone else's words.

I know that look. I've worn that look.

Before I know it, I'm standing a few feet away, holding my own stack of books, pretending to arrange them as I watch her out of the corner of my eye. I clear my throat, soft enough to seem incidental, and she looks up, her gaze catching mine.

"You like the Brontës?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.

Her lips part slightly, surprised, before she nods. "There's... something haunting about them," she says. Her voice is so soft, I almost have to lean closer to hear her. "The way they write, it's like they understand people in a way that's raw, unfiltered."

I nod, smiling just a bit. "That's what I love about Wuthering Heights. You can almost feel the loneliness in it."

Her eyes flicker with something—agreement, maybe, or understanding. "Sometimes I feel like it's written for people who don't belong," she says quietly, almost like she's speaking to herself. "People who aren't... understood."

The words are like a spark, and suddenly, I feel as if I know her in a way I shouldn't. I don't know her past, but I know what it's like to feel like an outsider. I know the ache of solitude.

"I get that," I murmur, keeping my gaze steady on her. "Books like that—they become mirrors. For some of us, anyway."

She looks at me then, really looks, her eyes searching mine as if she's surprised to find understanding there. "Yeah," she says after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. "Exactly."

We fall into silence, and she goes back to the book, though her expression is softer now, her guard slightly lowered. I want to reach out, to ask her more, but I don't want to push. Not yet. I've learned from my mistakes. Juliet isn't just a person to be admired; she's a mystery to be unraveled, slowly, one delicate thread at a time.

After a few minutes, she walks to the counter, book in hand. I follow at a distance, watching as she pulls a small wallet from her bag, her fingers fumbling with a crumpled twenty.

"Let me cover it," I say, stepping up beside her. "It's on the house."

She turns to me, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. "Why?"

"Call it an employee discount," I say, shrugging casually, even as my heart races. "Besides, I owe you for picking such a good book. Wuthering Heights—a classic."

She watches me for a beat longer, and I can almost see the debate playing out behind her eyes. But then, slowly, she nods, accepting the offer.

"Thank you," she says, sliding the book across the counter to me. "It's... kind of you."

I ring it up, feeling the weight of her gaze on me. I hand the book back to her, and our fingers brush for just a moment. She pulls her hand back quickly, but the contact is enough to send a spark through my veins.

She lingers by the door, glancing back at me one last time. "I'll see you around, Joe."

And just like that, she's gone, disappearing into the crowded street. I watch her go, feeling an inexplicable sense of longing, a pull that I can't explain.

Juliet Harris. She's like a ghost—here one minute, gone the next, leaving only traces of herself in her wake. And as I turn back to the empty bookstore, I know one thing for certain.

This isn't over. Not by a long shot.