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Tonight, I am a man retreating, but the fire she's kindled is a beacon calling me back. Tomorrow, I swear, I will take another step in our dangerous dance. Each day, closer. Until she's mine.
I fall into bed, the ghost of her essence clinging to my consciousness. My hand finds me, hard and unyielding, and I stroke with a fervor fueled by images of her beneath me, around me, drowning in the same untamed desire that consumes me.
"Autumn," I hiss through clenched teeth as pleasure and pain collide, the solitary act a mere shadow of what I yearn for. The night swallows my cries, but my resolve is unwavering.
Iwillhave her.
CHAPTER
TWO
Autumn
I stand before the mirror,my gaze locked on the reflection that never seems to be enough. Why don't they see me? I trace the outline of my lips, slightly parted in a silent plea for answers. My skin is porcelain, almost ethereal in its paleness, a stark contrast to the deep brown waves of hair that cascade down my back. It's like I'm made of moonlight and shadows, but no one ever dares to reach out and touch.
My eyes, soft and doe-like, brim with questions no one bothers to hear. They're the color of freshly tilled earth, warm yet filled with a melancholy that clings like morning fog. I'm small, almost too easy to overlook in the crowded halls, my petite frame drowned in the sea of bodies bustling past without a second glance.
An ache twists in my chest, a gnawing hunger for something more than this silence that wraps around me like a shroud. I'm tired of being invisible. I don't think I'm ugly, but I must not be pretty either. Am I not enough? Do they not see the longing etched into every line of my face?
The frustration coils tighter, hot and bitter on my tongue. I want to scream, to tear at the delicate fabric of this facade until someone,anyone, acknowledges the fire that burns beneath. But I swallow it down, let it simmer beneath my skin where no one can see how it scorches me from the inside out.
In this quiet battle with my reflection, I search desperately for the flaw that keeps love at arm's length. Yet all I find is the raw honesty of my own desire, the visceral need to be wanted that pulses through my veins. And maybe, just maybe, that's the most terrifying part of all.
***
I'm nestled in the corner of the library, a fortress of solitude built from stacks of leather-bound promises and paper-thin escapes. The scent of aging pages is a balm, mingling with the faint musk of wood polish that clings to the air like an old friend. Lunchtime chatter is a distant murmur beyond these walls, where I sit cross-legged, my sanctuary within the silent rows of books.
My fingers trace the spine of a novel, its edges worn from countless adventures it has granted others. I dive into the world within, letting the prose weave around me, a tapestry of words that shields me from the reality of my isolation. Literature is my confidante, the characters within far more understanding than those who share my breathing space.
A sigh slips through my lips, lost in the vast quietude that blankets the room. Why do I always end up here, shielded by bookshelves instead of laughter and shared secrets? I ponder the ease with which others form bonds, their lives intertwining like vines while I remain a solitary bloom, rooted in place and overlooked.
The popular crowd, a tableau of connection I observe from afar, seems as foreign as the fictional realms I cherish. Their smiles never seek me out; their invitations never grace my ears.Am I so different, so invisible in my ordinariness that I become just another fixture in this academic landscape?
I pull my gaze away from the window to the outside, where I glimpse fragments of their world. There's a tightness in my chest, an ache for understanding—a yearning to be seen not just as the girl who excels in her studies, but as someone worth knowing, worth approaching.
Yet, here I am, cocooned in the silence of the library, the soft whisper of turned pages my constant companion. My heart clings to the hope that one day someone will breach these self-erected barriers, that they'll recognize the depths hidden beneath my studious exterior.
For now, I return to my book, the rhythm of my heart syncing with the cadence of the narrative. I let the fiction fill the void, the absence of connections that tugs at my soul, and immerse myself in the lives of characters who never fail to invite me in.
I flip the page, but the words blur. The sting of inadequacy, sharp and relentless, punctuates my thoughts. It's like I'm made of glass, transparent in a world that craves vibrant colors. Guys seem to glide past me, their gazes tethered to anything, anyone, but me. What is it about me that repels them so? My fingers trace the contours of my face, searching for flaws that must scream louder than my silence.
"Am I not pretty enough?" The question slips from my lips, a whisper lost among the dusty shelves. Is it my long wavy hair that doesn't cascade just right, or my soft brown eyes that fail to sparkle with the allure of confidence? Perhaps it's the sadness they hold, a silent sentinel of my internal battle. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but what if there is no one willing to behold me?
My chest tightens, squeezing the breath from my lungs as I close the book before me. The tension coils within, frustration gnawing at the edges of my resolve. Am I destined to be alone, asolitary figure in a sea of affectionate connections? The thought spirals, dark and unbidden, a relentless echo against the walls I've built around myself.
The library empties, the laughter and chatter of departing students a stark contrast to the void beside me. They leave me behind, an afterthought, if even that. A flush of heat climbs my neck, anger and desperation mingling into a bitter concoction. What is wrong with me? I stand, my movements sharp and erratic, a reflection of the turmoil that rages under my skin.
The idea that I might always be this way—unnoticed, untouched—sends a shiver down my spine. The erotic dreams that sometimes steal through my sleep taunt me. They're as intangible as the touch I crave. Power dynamics play out in my head, scenarios where I am seen, wanted,claimed. But daylight brings the stark reality—I am powerless in my own narrative, a character without agency.
The books on the table are my refuge, their weight a comfort against the gnawing doubt. I bury myself in academia, seeking validation in the certainty of knowledge. Here, at least, I can excel, chase achievements that don't require the elusive currency of attraction.
"Nothing's wrong with you," I attempt to convince myself, but the assurance rings hollow. My fingertips graze the spines of well-worn novels, drawing strength from their familiar presence. Maybe, just maybe, in their pages, I can find some semblance of the worth I struggle to see in myself. For now, I cling to the hope that someday someone will look beyond the surface, see the fervor and passion that lies beneath the quiet facade.
But until then, I'll live in the stories, in the hunger of characters who dare to demand more. They inspire a flicker of boldness, a whisper of the woman I yearn to become. With a deep breath, I pick up another novel, its promise of escape asalve to my soul. I'll lose myself in fiction, bide my time until the world is ready to see Autumn Runions—not as a shadow, but as a blaze.
The sharp snap of a textbook closing echoes through the library, a stark finality in the quiet. I exhale slowly, my breath mingling with the dusty air that smells faintly of aged paper and lost time. Around me, the fortress of stacked books stands guard, their spines rigid and unyielding—my private battalion against the world.
"Chemistry," I whisper to myself, my fingertips tracing over the embossed letters on the cover. The periodic table becomes a tapestry of secrets, elements that hold the power to combine and combust. It's alchemy, the closest thing to magic in this drab reality, and I am the would-be sorceress poring over her incantations and potions.
