Chapter 27
Ophelia
Trinity College.It is a beautiful campus with many, many tourists. I’m not sure how the students get anything done here with the buzz. The grounds are filled with curious eyes. Gardens greener than you’ve ever seen and the smell of fresh rain—I could stay here for days, just observing the flowers and students. It’s the perfect place to crack a new book and jot down notes.
Lanston crosses Trinity College off the bucket list and grins. “We’ve nearly completed half the list.” He looks up at me, curiosity and affection dancing behind his eyes. “Do you feel closer to crossing over?”
I shake my head. “No. You?”
He shoves the paper back into his pocket and breathes out a long sigh. “No, but I also have no clue what that would feel like.” His lips arch into a smile, but I don’t miss the tension that pulls at his jaw.
He’s worried we’ll cross everything off the list and still be stuck here.
That’s a valid fear.
I feel it too.
But at least we’d still be together. I think and look over at Lanston as he studies the architecture of Trinity. His lips are red with the chill in the air, eyes bright with curiosity. At least we’ll still be together.
I smile at the thought, however fleeting it may be.
We venture inside the library, slipping between tourists as they stare in awe at the impressive room. No, it’s more than a room; it is a great hall, grander than any I’ve ever seen. The bookshelves are tall, nearly twenty feet or so. There are two stories of shelves. The ceilings are drafty, made of wood that arches beautifully with a rich brown stain. Each section has a ladder that looks entirely too thin to use. Sculpture busts of people who died a long time ago rest at the end of each row. The center of the room is made up of multiple glass cases in a perfect line. Each holds artifacts and things you’d find in museums.
Lanston traces his fingers along the glass display cases and looks up at the books, admiring the knowledge this place keeps tucked away. The ache in my chest grows as his eyes dim a bit.
“You can still do something with your experience here, you know,” I say softly, staring down at my intertwined fingers. He glances my way and I find a flicker of hope in them.
“Like what?”
“Anything you want.” I reach into his satchel and place his notebook in his hands. One of his suspenders has slid over his shoulder and he truly looks like himself right now. The messy, disorganized man that he is. His light brown hair is disheveled and those hazel eyes warm on me.
“Would you let me draw you again?”
I raise a brow and grin mischievously, folding my hands together over the crux of my lower back as I walk casually away from him. “You never asked to begin with, Nevers,” I say sarcastically, and I can hear him chuckle to himself. The smooth sound of his voice sets embers alight inside my chest.
The thought of falling in love as a phantom seems ridiculous. I’ve already had my chance at love in my short life, and it didn’t end well.
I take the spiral staircase at the end of the hall up to the second story of ancient books. It smells like dusty pages and old, creaking wood up here. The silence of the library, though filled with at least a hundred people, is deafening.
My eyes find Lanston quickly. He has selected a pillar to lean against, his eyes studying the shelves and ladders as his hand draws furiously. His brows pull together with focus.
How could such raw, beautiful talent and passion go unnoticed? I stare in awe as he works, admiring every emotion it strips from my soul.
I want to share things and bleed as he does. But first, I need to finish telling him my story; otherwise, I’m unsure he’d fully understand.
The longer I watch him, the sadder I become.
Who staved off his dreams of being his true self? Who wasn’t he good enough for? The adoration and inspiration that fuels his lovely mind should’ve been enough. I wish someone would’ve told him that his art didn’t belong hidden in his room at a mental rehabilitation center. It should have been broadcast and shouted from the rooftops. Look. I existed and these are the things I felt inside. These are the images I drew for the world to witness, to feel alongside me.
I wish I could’ve been that person for him. I wish we were alive. I’d show everyone here what he can do.
I let out a soft sigh.
My eyes drift over to a row of books labeled with different religions. There is a framed image by the section of a woman surrounded by demons; fire consumes her and the pain in her expression is palpable.
Weariness drags into my lungs as I stare at the torture depicted so mercilessly.
Is this what I fear? Where the bad people go.
Is this why I’m still here?
We stay at the library for the rest of the day, watching people come and go—ignorant of the phantoms that observe them. I search for Mr. Briggs in history books, but I can’t find a thing about the man. It stings my heart, but perhaps that phantom stuck in the cathedral has already forgotten our promise. She seemed aloof enough. Selfishly, I hope it’s the case. As Lanston mentioned, we can’t stay long, but it doesn’t stop the guilt.
I spend the remaining time writing Lanston the second letter of my story and fold the pages into my pocket. He uses up at least five pages in his notebook before finding me and letting his shoulders drop with weariness.
“Ready?” I ask, letting my head fall to the side a bit as fatigue tugs on my eyes as well.
He nods and offers me his hand.
We find an empty dorm room on Trinity’s campus. The bed is stripped bare, the closet vacant. Lanston sets his coat over the bed and lies down, lifting his head expectantly for me to follow.
I linger in the doorway, rubbing my thumb over the pages I wrote for him to read tonight. We haven’t spoken about the first letter. Nor his drawing.
But I want to watch him read it tonight. I have questions about his picture too, the hurt behind it. The story that it drew breath from.
Lanston quirks a brow and sits up. Both his suspenders are off his shoulders now and he looks serene in this state of disarray. The dim light catches on the swell of his lips. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
The letter feels heavy in my hand as I pull it from my pocket. His eyes lower to the pages and a smile awakens over his sleepy features.
“I want to watch you read it.”
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches over the edge of the bed and into his bag. A torn page is already folded and he finds it quickly, giving me an innocent grin. “Guess we had the same idea.”