The stationery shop near Halden University smelled like freshly bound paper and expensive ink — Zelda's kind of peace in a world that rarely gave her any.
It was nestled between a minimalist café and an architecture bookstore, quiet and curated, like it had been plucked out of her daydreams. The floors were polished wood, the lighting soft and warm. Classical music played faintly in the background, unobtrusive and thoughtful. This was a place made for precision — and for people who craved order.
She moved slowly through the aisles with quiet purpose: mechanical pencils, sketchbooks, tracing paper, precision rulers — tools that reminded her who she was. Tools that grounded her.
She wore loose linen pants and a cream blouse tucked neatly in, her hair twisted into a clip at the nape of her neck. No makeup. No effort for anyone else. Just herself.
She needed this — a quiet errand, a solo mission. A week before the chaos of the new semester. A week to put things back in place. To reset her mind. To dull the echo of Lucien's silence and cleanse the taste of Marcella's syrup-coated venom.
No more guessing games. No more glances across long tables. No more pretending that anything between them — any of them — had ever been simple.
Zelda rounded the corner of an aisle lined with modeling tools, fingers trailing along the display edge as she reached for a new set of X-Acto blades — and stopped.
Marcella.
Leaning against the display like it was made for her. Her posture relaxed, one heel popped, her manicured fingers skimming a boxed compass set she had no intention of buying. Wide-leg ivory pants, a high ponytail that looked sculpted, glossy lips slightly parted in a well-rehearsed expression of surprise.
"Zelda," Marcella said, her voice light and laced with insincerity. "Funny seeing you here."
Zelda's hand didn't waver as she picked up her knife set. "This is the architecture section, Marcella."
Marcella gave a soft laugh. "Oh, you know me — always curious about other people's passions." She held up the compass set. "I was just getting a gift. For a… friend."
"Right." Zelda turned smoothly and walked away, heading toward the check-out line.
Marcella followed.
Of course.
They exited the shop into the early evening light. The city was glowing gold — golden hour painted the buildings like a film set, soft shadows stretching along the pavement. Students and locals milled about, some with iced coffees, some with shopping bags. Zelda adjusted the strap of hers, shifting it to her other shoulder.
"I was going to call you," Marcella said after a beat, her tone rehearsed casual. "Actually — I've been meaning to talk to you."
Zelda paused, just briefly, before responding. "About?"
Marcella smiled, wide and friendly. "Rooming."
Zelda turned slightly to face her.
"I thought… since we're both returning students and likely won't have roommates arranged already… maybe we could consider rooming together this semester?" Marcella tilted her head. "It'd be nice to have someone familiar."
Zelda stared at her for a second. The audacity was almost impressive.
She took a slow breath. "That's thoughtful, Marcella. But no."
Marcella blinked. "No?"
"I'm staying alone. I need the quiet this year. Architecture is… intense." Zelda kept her voice even. "I'll be pulling nights in the studio. It wouldn't be fair to share a space."
Marcella's smile held, but her eyes tightened. "I don't mind noise. Or odd hours."
"But I do," Zelda replied smoothly.
Marcella stepped closer. "Are you sure you're not just—" she paused, "—being a little defensive?"
Zelda raised a brow, lips curving faintly. "I'm not defensive. I'm just not interested."
There it was again — the glimmer of irritation in Marcella's perfect face, quickly masked.
"Of course," she said. "Just offering. You don't have to make it sound like I was imposing."
Zelda tilted her head. "Were you?"
Marcella let out a soft laugh. "Still so independent."
"Still so observant."
They stood in a strange stillness, the city moving around them. A car honked in the distance. Somewhere down the street, someone was playing a violin. Zelda shifted her weight and turned slightly, ready to walk away.
But Marcella had one more card to play.
"By the way," she said casually, taking a step back, "Lucien mentioned he might visit the university sometime this semester. Said he missed the library."
Zelda didn't flinch, but inside, something flickered.
Marcella smiled like a fox. "Isn't that… sweet?"
Zelda didn't answer. Her silence was louder than any reply.
Marcella turned, her heels sharp against the concrete, and walked away, disappearing into the stream of golden light and strangers.
Zelda stood there for a moment, letting the city blur around her. The strap of the bag dug into her fingers, but she didn't move.
Lucien missed the library?
Since when did ghosts miss anything?
---
She didn't return home immediately.
Instead, she walked.
Past the busier end of campus, through the sculpture garden behind the art building, past the ivy-covered benches where couples whispered and students sketched. She kept walking until she reached the abandoned greenhouse behind the west wing — locked up years ago but still standing, glass panels cracked, vines curling around the iron framework like it was being devoured.
She sat on the stone steps outside it and pulled out her sketchbook.
For a few minutes, all she did was draw lines.
Sharp ones. Angled. Clean. No curves. No softness.
It calmed her — the sound of pencil on paper, the illusion of control.
She didn't want to care what Lucien missed.
Didn't want to hear his name in Marcella's mouth.
Didn't want to feel that old ache again — the one that bloomed in silence and grew roots in glances that never meant what they should've.
She hated how easy it was for Marcella to stir the water.
Hated that Marcella could say one thing and still manage to leave her second-guessing everything.
But mostly, she hated that Lucien hadn't warned her.
Not about Marcella coming back.
Not about what they used to be.
And not about what Zelda might be walking into now — blind.
---
By the time she stood up and walked home, the sky was dark and her sketchbook was full of shapes that didn't mean anything.
But at least her hands had stopped shaking.