Ava didn't sleep.
The city kept breathing even when everything else didn't. Her room was quiet, but her head wasn't. She lay there, tangled in the sheets, watching shadows on her ceiling shift every time a car passed outside. Her phone blinked. One message, unread.
From him.
She didn't open it.
Instead, she rolled over and stared at the small crack on her wall—one she had never noticed before. It ran from the corner of her window like a vein, thin but deliberate. The kind of thing you ignore for years until suddenly, it means something.
She hated that it reminded her of yesterday.
Of that stranger.
Of the way the world felt like it tilted just a little when he looked at her.
No. Not stranger. Eli. He had a name.
And names made things real.
She pulled her blanket tighter and closed her eyes.
Still, her mind stayed open.
---
The next morning, Ava stood in front of her mirror, one hand brushing over her collarbone where her necklace used to be. She hadn't worn it in days. Something about it didn't feel right anymore. Like it belonged to a different version of her—one that didn't meet people like Eli in laundromats with broken dryers and strange smiles.
The kettle screamed from the kitchen.
She left the mirror without really looking at herself.
In the small space that doubled as her kitchen and her escape route, she poured herself tea she didn't want. The silence wasn't heavy—it was familiar. That kind of quiet you grew up with. The kind that never felt quite empty, just full of things you never said out loud.
She picked up her phone. The message was still there.
> "Didn't mean to scare you. I just… noticed you looked like you needed to breathe."
No emoji. No pressure. Just words. Weirdly gentle.
Ava stared at it like it might explain something if she read it enough times.
She didn't reply. Not yet.
---
Work was work. Half-listening to meetings, smiling when it felt required, moving things from one screen to another. But somewhere between coffee break and lunch, she caught herself glancing toward the elevator more than once.
She hated that.
It wasn't like she expected him to walk through it. He didn't even know where she worked. Probably didn't even care.
But still.
The idea of someone seeing her... actually seeing her—it messed with her balance more than she'd admit.
Later, as she walked home, her phone buzzed again.
> "There's a bookstore on 5th. Small, kind of hidden. They sell old poetry. You seem like the type who notices things."
No name. No ask. Just a breadcrumb.
Ava stopped walking.
The sky was melting into shades of orange and lavender, the kind of sunset you'd normally take a picture of. She didn't.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
> "You don't know me."
She typed it. Deleted it. Then typed:
> "What makes you think that?"
Send.
And suddenly, her breath caught.
She hated that too.
---
That night, Ava dreamed she was underwater. Not drowning—just suspended. Everything muted and slow. She could see her hands in front of her, stretched out, reaching toward something. A light maybe. Or a voice. She wasn't sure.
And then a hand reached back.
Not pulling. Just… being there.
She woke up without remembering the ending.
---
Saturday came with quiet sun and a breeze that smelled like someone else's laundry. She walked past the café she used to love and turned right, toward 5th Street.
Not because of the message.
That's what she told herself.
The bookstore was exactly where it wasn't supposed to be. No big sign. Just a dusty window with faded letters spelling out Thread & Spine. It looked closed. But the bell above the door jingled when she pushed it open.
Inside smelled like paper and time.
A man behind the counter didn't look up. Just nodded, like she was exactly who he expected.
Rows of books towered over her, crooked and crammed, whispering their titles in gold and dust. She walked through the aisles slowly, fingertips grazing spines like they might answer her.
And then she saw it.
Tucked between two oversized atlases was a thin, black book with no title. She pulled it out. The cover was rough—linen maybe. Inside, the pages were handwritten.
She flipped it open to a random line:
> "The world never warns you when the important things begin."
She didn't hear the door open behind her.
Didn't feel someone step into the aisle until a low voice said, "You found it."
---
Ava turned around.
He stood there, fingers tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he hadn't just dropped a sentence that curled itself under her skin.
She blinked. "You… followed me?"
Eli tilted his head, almost smiling. "I was here first."
"Right," she said, hugging the book tighter against her chest. "Of course you were."
The aisle felt narrower now. Or maybe her breath just caught again.
He stepped forward—not too close—and looked at the book in her arms. "You picked the one with no name."
"It found me," she murmured before she could stop herself.
Their eyes met for a second too long. The kind of second that said something even if neither of them did.
Then Eli nodded, like that made sense. "That's the only one I ever read here. Thought it'd suit you."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "You recommend books to strangers often?"
He smiled. "Only to the ones who look like they don't talk to themselves enough."
She almost laughed—almost. But her fingers tightened around the cover. "Why are you really here?"
Eli leaned against the shelf. "Because I meant it. You looked like you needed to breathe."
That word again.
Breathe.
It sounded different coming from him. Not like an instruction, but an invitation.
Ava lowered the book. "I'm not a project."
"I know," he said, quiet. "Neither am I."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she didn't.
Eli stepped back, giving her space again. "You can keep the book. The guy at the counter won't mind."
She glanced at the front. The man still hadn't looked up.
"I didn't bring cash."
"It's not that kind of store."
Her fingers brushed the edges of the pages. Something inside told her that book wasn't about the poetry at all. It was a thread. A breadcrumb. A glitch.
And somehow, it felt okay to follow it.
---
Outside, the wind had picked up. Ava walked beside Eli without speaking, the book clutched in both hands like it might vanish if she let it go. They passed people and shops and old posters half-torn on street corners. But none of it stuck.
Only him. Only now.
"Are you always like this?" she finally asked.
"Like what?"
"Mysterious. Casual. Kind of annoying."
He laughed, genuinely. "I don't mean to be."
"I didn't say it was a bad thing."
He looked sideways at her. "You're hard to read."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because then people stop trying."
His expression softened, like he saw something behind her words. But he didn't ask. Didn't pry.
Just said, "I'll walk you to the end of the street."
She almost asked why again.
But maybe not everything needed a reason.
---
When they stopped at the crosswalk, the silence between them wasn't awkward. It was... full. Like a song paused in the middle of the best verse.
"I'll text you," Eli said.
Ava hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
He didn't ask if it was fine. Didn't push for more. He just turned around, hands back in his pockets, and disappeared into the crowd like he was never really there.
But he was.
And something in her shifted just enough to notice.
---
Back in her apartment, Ava sat on the edge of her bed with the book open across her lap. The pages were strange—some written in cursive, others like rushed notes in a journal. No structure. No chapters. Just thoughts. Fragments. Pieces of someone trying to make sense of something they couldn't explain.
One line caught her breath:
> "You won't see the moment it all starts unraveling. You'll only feel the echo of the first thread snapping."
She didn't know why, but her chest tightened.
A soft knock sounded at her door.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
Ava stood slowly, unsure. She peeked through the peephole—no one.
But on the floor, a folded piece of paper.
She opened the door, scanned the hallway, empty. Quiet.
She picked up the note. Handwritten.
> "It's not about finding answers. Sometimes it's just about noticing the pattern before it repeats."
No name. No explanation.
Same handwriting as the book.
---
That night, she lay in bed with the paper on her nightstand and the book beside her pillow. The city outside whispered its usual stories—sirens, wind, music from a party three floors down. But inside her chest was something else.
Something… beginning.
And though she tried to resist it, Ava smiled.
Just a little.
She didn't know who Eli really was. Or what this was becoming.
But for the first time in a long while, she wasn't afraid of not knowing.
Not yet.