He left behind a cliche note promising he'd return with Evangeline. I was the one he left the letter to, and it broke my heart more than it would have if he had left it to her instead.

Evangeline sat across me, tracing the rim of her cup as she waited for me to finish my homework. We were in the library of the college I was currently in. A state college. I may have been nineteen.

"It looks nice," I heard her mumble, "must be fun."

Evangeline Vasquez's dream had been to attend college, for her mother's sake and her late older brother. She wanted to show them she too, like most people, could live a normal life.

I didn't know why she visited. I hadn't talked to her since before summer before classes began, and we were well into mid-October, raining with just the right amount of dark clouds. I let her see me or rather, I was glad to see her. She kept tracing the rim of her cup, a thing I mimicked until it became my own. It was a bad habit of hers. I'm not entirely sure if it was bad for me.

She wore a nice dress over a long-sleeved shirt and black boots. When she’d taken her coat off earlier, I made sure to take note of the shirt. I wanted to ask but her absolutely defeated demeanor warded me not to. I became afraid of asking her.

Evangeline always wore a smile on her face. She'd always be laughing or grinning, amused by the world. Now here she was with bags under her eyes, a far off look, and fingers that traced the rim of her cup just so she wouldn't have the urge to scratch the itch on her arms.

"That wasn't the first time I'd been in that sort of situation..." My voice trailed. 

I shut my eyes for a moment and inhaled.

From the studded armchair I sat on, pursing my lips, I surveyed the ceiling. The entire room felt dark from the bulky desk, neutral-colored seats to the cherry-like wooden bookshelves that lined the room. The bindings of the books were just as darkly shaded. If it weren't for the two French windows, there'd be no light even though it was ten in the morning.

"What sort of situation, my dear?"

I turned to the woman wearing an all-black habit as she quizzically gazed at me. I found myself scratching my head and brushed my hair back in contemplation. I really hadn't told them anything except that I had a crush on a boy and had plenty of friends in high school. 

"The thing is..." I trailed off again, "everything always looks fine you know?" I eyed the books—"When we browse a library or a bookstore, we're attracted to the intricate bindings or the interesting titles. Some people will read the back of the book or the flap inside. Others forgo it for an exciting experience of not knowing before plunging into the book or that simply, the first impression was enough for them. But... even though we all go through different rituals picking a book, we're never quite sure how we'll feel by the end of it if we even get there. Just like life, with people, you're never sure. And just how some books are worn out from being read too much, there are also those which have never been read."

I looked to the two adults in the room as I finished my breathless woe. Did they hear me?

"Why don't we have you tell us from the beginning." Father Peter's expression changed from his usual stoic expression. He seemed honestly interested in the rest of my story.

I took a deep unsure breath—"I was sixteen. It started with Warner Riese."