By the Book

Chapter Thirteen: Standing Still

The soft hum of my heater filled the room as I sat on my couch, The Alchemist open on my lap. The rain outside was relentless, drumming steadily against the windows, blurring the streetlights into soft halos of gold and white. The October chill crept through the glass, seeping into the edges of the room despite the heater's best efforts. I tugged my blanket tighter around my shoulders, the wool scratchy but comforting, and let my eyes drift back to the book.

The pages were worn, their edges softened by time and touch. The faint scent of aged paper mingled with the rich aroma of my untouched cup of tea on the side table. My fingers brushed over one of the passages Miles had underlined, the ink slightly faded but the intent behind it as sharp as ever:

'There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.'

The words stared back at me, daring me to acknowledge them. I leaned my head back against the couch, the faint hum of the heater blending with the rhythm of the rain. Fear had become such a familiar companion that I hardly noticed its presence anymore. It dictated everything—what I said, what I did, who I let in. Especially who I let in.

I flipped to another page, drawn not by the story itself but by the handwriting in the margins. Miles's notes were scattered throughout, some cryptic, others surprisingly candid. Next to a line about the heart being the one thing that knows the way, he'd written: Eleanor always said this, and I never believed her. Maybe I should have.

The note made me pause, my thumb resting against the edge of the page. His vulnerability was unexpected, and it made the book feel less like a story and more like a dialogue—one I wasn't sure I was ready to have.

Outside, the rain intensified, tapping insistently on the glass as if demanding attention. The street below was empty save for the occasional car, its headlights cutting through the mist before disappearing into the night. I pulled the blanket tighter, my gaze shifting back to the book. Another passage caught my eye, this one circled with almost frantic energy:

'When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.'

Beneath it, Miles had scrawled: Still figuring out how to trust this one.

I let out a slow breath, the weight of his words settling over me. Trust. It seemed so simple, so straightforward when written in a book, but in reality, it was a precarious thing—fragile and easily shattered. I ran my thumb along the edge of the page, my mind flickering back to that night at the café. The rain, the warmth of his arms, the steadiness in his voice as he'd told me I wasn't alone.

And I'd run.

I closed the book gently, my hands stilling as I stared at the cover. The rain outside hadn't slowed; if anything, it seemed heavier now, a constant backdrop to the questions swirling in my mind. I glanced at the clock, noting the late hour but feeling no pull toward sleep.

Instead, I leaned forward, picking up my tea and cradling the mug in my hands. The warmth seeped into my fingers, chasing away the lingering chill. Miles's words echoed in my head, both the ones in the book and the ones he'd spoken that night. I wondered if he had any idea what his notes meant, how they seemed to speak directly to the parts of me I worked so hard to hide.

The shrill buzz of my phone broke through the steady rhythm of the rain. I blinked, startled, as the sound pulled me out of my thoughts. Setting my mug down carefully on the table, I leaned over to grab the phone from where it rested on the arm of the couch.

Miles.

His name on the screen sent a jolt through me, a mixture of anticipation and hesitation curling in my chest. My thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before I exhaled, steeling myself, and answered.