Lean In

The paper feels strange to your fingertips. It's dry and flakey; you have folded and unfolded the corner of the page so many times that you are becoming worried that you might accidentally rip it off. It wouldn't be an issue if it was your own book, but you are renting it from the library and you would feel incredibly guilty if you damaged the book. You should stop playing with the pages. But you are a fiddler. You can't help it.

A deep and lulling voice pierces through the empty silence like a bullet through the air.

"Good book?"

Your heart stops and your whole body jolts. The library book with the creased pages slips out of your hands and falls into your lap. You have lost your place in the story and your train of thought. You look up towards the light pouring through the open door, your eyes focusing on the shadowed figure standing in the suture of illumination and abyss. The tall, lengthy, sharp figure crosses into the darkness of the room, fading into the pure black space, making their way towards you. With each step closer, mute and gentle like a feline, your heart pounds louder and harder in your head like a heavy and deep drum.

You sputter for a moment, finding it hard to sew your thoughts into sentences. You take a moment to pull your words together and push out a simple yes.

Beside you is your phone, facing down, with a beam of yellow light from the flashlight shooting up at the ceiling. The figure walks up to you and leans against the wall. Their back scratches the wall as they lower themself down to the floor to sit. Their legs stretch out as they fit into the place by your side. Your skin tingles and the little hairs on your arms stick up straight as trees. The glow of your flashlight defines the face of the figure.

Lilyth Hellen has the most beautiful face you've ever seen. It doesn't matter what light or what darkness she's in, she's always hauntingly picturesque- especially in the brightness of the phone's light.

Her pine green eyes seem to glow like a full moon, contrasting against the thick ink of her mascara and the dense fog of her smokey eye. Her makeup is messy and smeared, like coal dust, all except for her blood-red lipstick. Her lips are neat and crisp enough to cut metal clean through. In the spots where her face is untouched by makeup, you can see her skin, soft and clear. There's no scar, blemish, pimple, or imperfection to be seen, nor is there a trace that there ever was any in the first place. Her face is shrouded by her long, soft, black hair, without a single strand out of place. She's like someone you'd see in one of those old portraits; pretty, pristine, perfect. She's smiling at you, with her grave green gaze.

You suddenly realize that you have been staring for far too long and the pit in your stomach grows wider. Heat rises to your cheeks as a flickering flame. You turn away from her and focus on the book in your lap. You hope you're not visibly blushing.

You ask her what's up, though you already have a guess as to why she's here with you.

"I wanted to find you," her voice is a low, hypnotic drawl that sends shivers down your spine. Even when she's speaking she sounds like a song. "I wanted to talk about your message."

There isn't a hint of awkwardness or discomfort in her voice. She's just as undaunted and accoy as she always is. A little odd given the subject matter, but not out of character for her.

The flames in your cheeks rage bigger and hotter. You're certain that if you weren't red-faced before, you are now. You let out a shaky breath which sounds like a soft 'ah.'

Right, you say, nowhere near as sturdy as she is.

She doesn't look away from you as she speaks, even though you wish to vanish out of her sight and into the darkness. Perhaps even for forever.