The universe was out to get her through the means of soulmates. A stupid red string or perfect match. Regardless, it was tightening around her throat like a noose. Or that was what Lilian’s head was trying to tell her over the hollow thrum of rain carving rough edges into crumbling brick walls. The sound pulsed through the floor below her, steady sheets turning into an all-consuming heartbeat. Its pull was so magnetic that even the inlaid lights couldn't help but move in rhythm, flicking between the fading gray of afternoon light and the LEDs burning white.

Not that she cared much, as her form followed her steps like a twisted twin in the mirror. The fabric of her sweater, stiff against her waving arms, sent shivers up her waterlogged muscles. Still, her thoughts ran faster than her feet could fall or the damp cold breaking into her bones could dissipate.

Whoever came up with the idea someone could so easily and flawlessly find their better half was insane. People weren't puzzle pieces designed from birth to click into place. One had to change. The more she became an extension of them, the more they were soulmates.

Lilian felt a sigh loosen in her chest like a free marble in a shrinking prison. The smell of lemons threatened to clean out her body just as it had the toilets. For a second, her body stilled with a shiver as she forced a claw-like hand through her soaked hair. It tickled like a soft brush in the hand of an artist as her braid peeled from the crux of her neck. Water still gathered around every small plait, making the black strands even darker. The bangs, however, refused to move as they bobbed towards her eyes while she tussled her hand through. It dipped into coal-coloured smears dripping below her lash line.

Yet they always left, no matter how long or perfect the act was. The mask wasn't good enough to sell a partner what they wanted. At least she had her job...

The muscles in her jaw clenched, sending unyielding cramps through her being. Soon her chest constricted, trapping her breath between two lumbering walls bound to collapse onto each other. A dreaded warmth clawed its way out of her throat and momentarily rested behind her eyes.

Her job, the one unrestrained act chosen by her for her. Not pleasing others. Maybe if her next romance crashed before it burned, she could marry her job.

Tired of its rest, the heat brushed off slumber and flowed into tears. Small beads of warmth that gained the color of graphite further dragged down the trails under her eyes. A cross between boiling rage exploding into screams and the last of a dying whimper filled the space. It lingered like a ghost while she tugged at the thin paper towel before rubbing the puffing skin under her eyes red to rid herself of the stubborn eyeliner.

No, no, she was not doing this here, not now. For one second, Cupid could take the stupid arrows and shove them. She was here to shop, not mope. Biblical flood be damned.

Lilian's sneakers scuffed against the tile, mimicking the soft sniffs she let out in hopes of getting her life together. Even if it was for just twenty minutes of staring at dusty books and debating for another twenty minutes whether she should bring them home. The door stood taller than she was while Lilian yanked on the copper doorknob. It was being overtaken by a dull green that ushered in a final step, bathed in the crisp white light before the cast of darkening daylight called.

It was rare for the melancholy of rain to make a carpet look better, yet today the short khaki fuzz wasn't assaulting her eyes. Much like the damp air lazing around the maze of bookcases, the carpet had mellowed to an off-cream color. Compared to the tile, it consumed her heels like a dusty cloud.

The dust acted like an old friend in the form of hanging curtains. It followed her as she wove through walls of dark wood, battered by time. Yellowed paper and aging velvet mixed with a thousand perfumes from the book's long-gone lives coaxed Lilian onwards. The rain became white noise as it rattled windows and the door, leaving her with an empty silence. Not a soul stuck around today.

The one thing that did stay was her thoughts on the very thing she was trying to escape. At first, they ate at her like an itch in the back of her mind. The kind in early summer that was uncomfortable but ignorable as her fingers traced crumbling book spines. One would die out, and another would take its place, whispering into her ears a little too loudly.

She didn't even give a reason or a goodbye. Why was she still looking for one? 

Those words seemed to sap all the calm from the store. Ornate carvings or gold leaf titles became no more than fragile cardboard, worthless as she turned the corner. Now the store itself was taunting her. There, almost in mocking nature, were the words Self-help.

A weight, as if stones were being stacked, rolled onto her shoulders. With no other choice, they sank. Her eyes felt an all-too-familiar pressure, like a tap threatening to overflow with hot tears. She always waited and waited ... to get nothing.

Lilian felt like the ground had become tendrils reaching out for her. She didn't have the energy to run. Just like the weather, it had stolen the beauty of the place. The shade wrapped around her wrist like chains, no doubt a flow of memories would act as the ball. A sigh streamed out of her, one exhausted sign of surrender. Doing the only thing that felt right, she lowered herself down, so the shelves would bite into her spine. Then she hugged her knees close as a few books were knocked free, their covers creating small colourful arcs in the air.

If it weren't for their gentle movement and soft thuds, time might have stopped altogether. The atmosphere seemed to hunker down beside her like a full beast, tired from its meal. Her eyes focused on the gray stone patterns belonging to what little wall was visible. Even through her focus, she didn't see much as her churning mind took over.

At least no one was here to watch her pathetic display. However, she was used to being weak around others. She was scared and childish, but her act covered it for the most part. Fake was better, right?

Her mind acted on its own. The heat from the tears faded faster than the shining streaks could appear. An emptiness started in the pit of her stomach, creating a few ripples of hopelessness to float upwards. These ripples played with her vocal cords, begging to leave as wracking sobs. Instead, her throat held tighter to them and her body curled inwards. Hoping to be as small as she felt while her hand flexed into a fist full of her sweater.

She was going to end up alone and bitter in some retirement home. No lover or grandchild to care about her, let alone carry her memory. Because she wasn't enough, not as herself, not as what they wanted. No one would care about a woman whose only skill was putting chemicals in a petri dish.

Her breathing quickened into bare-bones rasps of air. The sobs that had been held down pushed forward, eking their way into existence. Her muscles felt as though they were going to snap like a rubber band pulled too tight. Their tension was filled with a cold dread as her body trembled on its own. A part of herself wanted the world to claim her right now, instead of being as fragile as glass.

Twenty-seven years and all she could manage to do was waste space. More than space, she wasted time and air.

The world blurred around her into rough shapes. It was blinding despite the shade and gloom. Her body scrunched closer, pressing her knees into her laboring lungs and driving her spine into the edge of the hardwood. The leather of her purse swayed like a cracked, stained wrecking ball, sending more books into a free fall. She muttered soundless words from her trembling lips. They would never meet another's ears, the meaning lost.

Air came in short buzzing bursts, like menthol to her aching chest. Her body felt as if it were fighting itself, trying to shake away thoughts with no form. The edge of her nails slipped further into her chilled palms. The pain was little compared to her temples. In the space between her heavy brows, a pinching feeling shifted into a steep pounding. Still, it pushed away the feeling of light-headedness, collecting at the edges of her mind. Without it, she would have been swimming in her own skull. Her body sputtered out one last uneven sob before she ran out of tears.

She was left alone with jumping nerves still alight and raw vocal cords tangled into knots. Her hand strained to let go of the sweater, convinced it was a lifeboat. They felt tender, as if on the brink of shattering like skin and bone left too long in the harsh cold. With a few drawn-out but level breaths, they wrenched free, still unsure and drawing into themselves.

Cold pierced the silence while she raised a hand to her stubborn nose. It continued to leak no matter how fast she cleaned up, the clear snail-like trail rolling towards her mouth. Refusing to let her hold on to some dignity, as reality returned like an unfinished painting getting more washes. So did the pain as it traversed down her spine and wrapped around her nerves like burning sparks. There was a second of protest as her mind, still foggy, tried to grasp at a finished thought. She swayed forward regardless.

Her stomach churned as if disappointed in the meltdown before her eyes, then for a second, fluttered closed. Shadows shifted into tones of pink and red, with nothing left but the scratchy fuzz of the carpet beneath her. The knots in her throat lessened as if her breath were nimble fingers working away. Her heart stuttered for a few long minutes, stuck in fight mode.

One, two, three...

The swimming feeling receded but forgot to take the burgeoning headache with it. Her inner monologue resounded in her head like a new loudspeaker in an empty subway. It was a brief break from the critic that circled her brain as of late, like a bloodthirsty vulture.

One, two, three...

Her chest rose and fell like waves on the hull of a ship, luring out any numbness. The stutter in her heart slowed, re-finding its pace. With one big, almost spiteful breath, she pushed her still-wet face into one of semi-indifference.

It was time to pull it together or go back to kindergarten. Starting with...

Lilian's world became the walls of McThissles once again. Although it was not the same as before, neither serene nor a storm of emotion. The place seemed to watch her, perhaps judging her as she forced a dry swallow and slipped off her bag. Old leather, which was as beaten up and well-used as she felt, flaked off in her hands like light snow.

 It sat on a small pile of forgotten books as if to look her in the eyes. The stomping of the rain returned. The shaking of old half-filled ibuprofen containers built like an orchestra as she rummaged through years of collected junk. Her hands shifted through empty gum packets and scratched sunglasses tangled together, looking for a single glossy strip.

It hid itself in the semi-darkness of her purse. Blended into other fragments of the past, the film, stained brown with coffee splatters, stood out against the cool gray that swathed it. Her finger traced flimsy packaging and chilled metal before reaching the sharp edges, as pointed as a dagger. It peeked out ever so slightly, the laminate glinting as her hands brushed it. The soft circles she drew reeked of stalling. For something so important, it was lighter than paper in her grasp.

Blurred ink slipped in between her fingers. On instinct, she leaned back into a slouch, more a dance to be comfortable than anything. The film scratched her skin, a little too desperate to shed blood for such a small pocket of frozen time. A dry sweat ran through her like a bad aftertaste when her gaze settled on the photo.

It was just a photo, for Christ’s sake. Why was she sitting here letting it have power over her again?

The picture wasn't the sole thing lording this power over her. No, of course not. It was the thing on the other side of the photo that had been so hard to forget. At first, it was nearly impossible to make out much while it turned in her palm. Soon, the low light shifted enough to reveal chunky strokes of a marker that might once have been black ink. Now, however, the phantom of the words streaked down the back in a muddied rainbow.

 I found a lily in the garden; maybe I'll keep it. Here's to a new start and many more dates.

-P

 3/7/2016.

Her eyes refused to move from the date scrawled out in a drunken haste, the aftertaste turned into cough medicine. It coated her tongue in a thick, repulsive blob tasting like the next day's version of fruit syrup-filled cocktails. For a second, her shoulders hugged her neck, bracing for a fist to squeeze her heart like an overripe fruit. A burning returned to her chest, fluttering sparks of fresh anger. They weren't red-hot, but they were something.

Perhaps with too much vigor, Lilian turned the photo back over. Her nose flared like an actor eating the scenery as she scanned the old memory. The overwhelming baseline of techno-pop collided with her brain, and she would swear awkward sheets of choppy hair teased the nape of her neck. All the same, her younger self stood ecstatic in a way that now seemed out of place. Much like the fringe that curled away from her forehead, it wasn't all bad. The eye-scolding neon lights took most of the attention.

If the memories of booze scorching her throat and a morning of sluggish trekking to the bathroom hadn't turned her stomach, then the Woman leaning over her shoulder in a sly cat-like pose started to twist it without mercy. Her dark eyelashes played on Younger Lilian's cheek as light as her name had once been.

Without thinking, her mouth formed the silent word Pandora as if the photo had stolen away her voice. Those Sparks, on the other hand, reached a fever pitch, and the air whispered sweet words of vengeance into her ears. She pressed the film against her twitching fingers, holding a debating breath in.

Why was she getting upset over Pandora's non-literal box?