Chapter 13: Chapter 13: My Favorite Day III.

"Miss Moore," the doctor interrupted me. "I’m not following your story very well."

I felt my hands on my stomach tighten along with her words, my eyes still closed. "What is it you don’t understand?" I asked, opening my eyes, greeted by that hateful white light.

She looked at her papers — the legal records and official evidence. "Why you speak that way about the criminal Charles Brown."

"Because Nolan deserves it," I answered. "He deserves to be remembered that way."

She tilted a newspaper toward my seat. I took it with just my fingertips. It described the Nolan case in an inaccurate way. "Miss Moore, that is what is legally known," she told me, pointing to the headline: The Breath-Cutter: The Vancouver Barista.

I blinked a couple of times before gripping the newspaper, unable to say a single word.

"Miss Moore, what I don’t understand about your story is your candor," Dr. Roy began. "Why do you confess to me? You had no need to paint yourself as a criminal."

"I have my reasons," I answered, with a cold voice that made her gaze tremble. "We can continue the session — today I don’t want to waste any more time than necessary."

I heard her swallow, straightening her back as if she wanted to pull away. "A-alright. Where would you like to continue?"

I exhaled through my nose — more like a laugh — closing my eyes. "With the next stop on my date," I smiled. "The second stop, honestly, wasn’t the most impressive. Or the most well-known."

"Then what was it?" asked the doctor, writing something in her notebook.

"It was," I began, "the most special."

Chapter 13: My Favorite Day III

The library: Maple Honey. A place I didn’t know, but one that, upon arriving, felt like it belonged to me.

"This is the place I told you about," he said, parking. "I hope you like it as much as I do."

I nodded, following him.

Nolan pushed the door open carelessly — a small bell rang, identical to the one we had at the café. That already gave this place a lot of points.

The man at the entrance greeted him with a nod of his head.

"Mr. Rodwin," he said. "As hardworking as ever."

"Always a pleasure to see you, Nolan," he said, reclining his chair. "Why haven’t you come in so long?"

"I’ve been busy, sir — a café isn’t easy to keep up."

"Same goes for a library," he answered, yawning. "Now you know what it feels like, dreamer."

I grabbed a fold in his shirt. "Do you come here often?" I whispered.

"I used to," he answered. "I haven’t been in two years, but I know every corner of this place perfectly." He held out his hand. "Allow yourselves to be guided by my sacred hand to your destiny, my beautiful silver lady."

"Are you trying to be a knight literally now?" I laughed a little. "I surrender gladly, honorable golden wizard — I entrust my life to your care."

He led me through the aisles without a map, turning at corners I never would have known to distinguish, until we reached a small section at the back of the second floor, next to a window looking out onto the cobblestone street. There was a wooden table with two chairs, and on the windowsill someone had left a small plant already half-dead.

He opened a chair with a half-bow, granting me passage. "We have arrived at our destination." I sat down, watching him set the flowerpots on the table. "Ryne. Allow me to present my palace."

I looked around: old shelves, dusty books, and a scent resembling the embrace of a loved one. The loneliest library I had ever known — but also the most welcoming I had ever been in.

"Why here?" I asked.

He looked at the window for a moment before answering.

He took my hand, stroking it with his thumb — a motion that took my breath away, though not for a good reason. "These past few weeks I’ve disconnected a lot from what I love," he confessed without mincing words. "And today I felt I had to pay for my mistakes." He sighed, looking me in the eyes. "Ryne... even though you see me as a perfect man, I have to confess something to you."

In that moment, this entire paradise froze. His eyes no longer blinked; his breathing could no longer be heard. My back froze along with my thoughts.

"W-what happened?" I managed to mouth before running out of air. Somehow, his face, body, and tone were screaming it at me. "Nolan..."

"I—" he began — each syllable felt like a cut to the stomach — "cheated on you," he finished, lowering his head while I let go of his hand, hiding it under the table. "I’m not the perfect man I promised you — I’ve lied to you, and that’s why I brought you here, to tell you the truth."

I turned to look at the table with my hands below it, not doing anything interesting — just pressing the bandages so hard I could feel the wounds reopening.

"A-and what truth are you going to tell me?" I murmured, thinking of Dilein. "That is so im-im-important it’s eating you alive like this." I breathed, looking him in the eyes. "What did you lie to me about?"

He moved his fringe aside, looking toward the window in a slow motion. Slower than necessary.

"I’m not the perfect man I promised you," he began. "Even though I try very hard, because you are perfect to me." He sighed, tapping the table. "I didn’t want to tell you, but I need to. And please — listen to me."

I nodded, beginning to scratch at the bandages slowly. "Say it," I whispered. "I’m listening — just... just say it."

He extended his hand — a signal asking for mine. I gave it to him, feeling the softness and warmth of his touch.

"Even if you don’t believe it, Ryne, as a child I was a great source of mockery," he began. "I was a chubby kid they liked to pick on. Bowling ball, bottomless barrel, trash can — I had more than enough nicknames. That’s why I locked myself inside these walls of wood and paper, even going days without eating." He sighed, looking me in the eyes. "Sometimes when I look at you I think about that. About those days when they threw paper balls at me, when they mocked me to my face, when I left full plates of food untouched while I hated my own body."

"Nolan..." I said, squeezing his hand.

"I still feel that, you know. That insecurity, that sadness, that hatred," he let out a small cry, closing his eyes for a moment. "Ryne, I know I don’t deserve you — and even less so after telling you this. I’ll understand if you hate me, because I’ve only been an actor lying to you for these past two years. I’m also human — I have needs, but my fear stops me from telling you."

He squeezed my hand — I could feel the strength and weakness of his grip at the same time. "Nolan," I managed to say again, placing my other hand over his. "Why would you think that would upset me?"

"I thought you’d be disappointed," he continued. "If I confessed it to you I’d lose that look — your admiration and love." He leaned over the table. "My father used to tell me that men should never reveal their feelings, that it makes them look weak. But the truth is, I am weak."

"I don’t think you’re weak," I said, resting my elbows on the table. "I think you’re real." I smiled. "I also think a lot about my worth as a partner. I don’t know how to cook, I don’t study, I’m not pretty," I confessed. "The idea of being nobody without you by my side is very frequent, and I’ve even come to believe it’s true. I think we’ve both locked ourselves inside masks that we ourselves press down."

He smiled a little, looking at a small fantasy section. "As a child I dreamed of being a writer — writing worlds that fascinate, poems that make people fall in love, characters you can love. Doesn’t that seem pathetic to you?"

"Not at all," I confessed. "I think it’s lovely — more real coming from the boy who read books in the park." I laughed, watching him follow along. "Is that what you were going to confess to me?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "Were you expecting something more?"

I started to laugh — not out of rudeness, but because something in my chest had released all the pressure crushing it. "You’re a fool, Nolan — I thought of the worst possible thing," I told him, watching his face begin to shine again. "Do you really think that would upset me? You were a good kid — maybe with insecurities like everyone, but good. And a dreamer on top of that — there’s nothing more beautiful than that. You were a beautiful child, Nolan."

He laughed along with me, as if he had realized how ridiculous his words had been — but I didn’t stop.

"I just stopped laughing, looking at the table while playing with my fingers, thinking about what I would confess to him," I sighed. "What do you think I confessed to him?"

"I don’t know," she said, finishing a note in her notebook. "What did you tell him, Miss Moore?"

I stroked my cheek, remembering what I felt in that moment. "The truth. I told him the truth."

She looked at me, analyzing my words, writing something in her notebook. She felt and heard everything, but didn’t look up. "Tell me what truth you told him," she asked. "I’m curious."

"Don’t be impatient, Dr. Roy — all in good time," I sighed. "This part of my life is still hard for me to tell."