Page 94 of The Bittersweet Bond

Evin pedaled hard, the wind brushing against her face. She didn’t know where she was going—and it didn’t matter. Her legs moved on their own, as if her body needed to outrun her thoughts. She turned down side streets again and again, cycling through neighborhoods she had never really noticed before. The repetition of pedaling, the rhythmic push and pull, was her only focus. Anything was better than letting her thoughts catch up.

She turned down a narrow alley. The asphalt beneath her tires suddenly felt smoother, and the sounds of the city faded into the background. It was quiet here. Almost too quiet.

Evin slowed down, her feet pressing lightly on the pedals as she let the bike roll to a stop. She glanced around.

The street felt like a different world—cobblestones, old lanterns casting a dim glow, buildings that looked like they belonged in an old film.How have I never seen this place before?

Up ahead, a small, enchanting bookstore caught her eye. She stopped, staring for a moment at the sign above the door, the name written in ornate lettering:Forgotten Stories.

Evin pulled her shoulders up as if she’d done something forbidden and slowly walked toward the door. She hadn’t meant to end up here, but something about the quiet street and the solitude of the place pulled her in like a magnet. She opened the door, and a soft bell chimed.

Evin stepped hesitantly over the threshold of the bookstore. The air was filled with the scent of old books and wood, and a calming silence settled over her senses. The shelves were tall and crammed with books, some old, some new, but all seemed to carry stories waiting to be discovered.

She wandered slowly through the aisles, her fingers brushing the spines of the books. It was soothing. For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

As she rounded a corner, she saw him: an older man with glasses, lost in thought, holding a book. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.

“Do you like stories?” he asked kindly, setting the book aside. His voice was calm, almost comforting.

Evin nodded but didn’t know what to say. She suddenly felt uneasy, as if he could see right through her. “Yeah, I guess. I… I just wanted to take a look around.”

The man smiled, his eyes seeming to pierce into her. “Sometimes we look for stories to help us understand our own,” he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

Evin frowned. “What do you mean?”

He pulled another book from the shelf—old and worn. “Sometimes we run from our own story. But it always catches up to us. The question is: when will we be ready to face it?”

Evin felt a lump in her throat. She didn’t know why, but his words struck her deeper than she wanted to admit. She nodded uncertainly, muttered an apology, and stepped back. Her cheeks flushed slightly as she looked at the book he offered her.

“You’ll know when you’re ready,” the man said gently before slowly disappearing into the back rows of the bookstore.

Evin stared after him for a moment before turning the book in her hands to read the title:

Of Lost Decisions.

__________

Evin’s phone buzzed.

Sergej

I’m waiting for you.

Short, as always.

She stared at the screen. Somehow, the familiar words felt heavier tonight.

The bookseller’s words still echoed in her mind:"Sometimes we run from our own story. But it always catches up with us."

Maybe it was time to end this, Evin thought as she swung onto her bike and rode home.

She was still in her workout clothes, sweat clung to her skin beneath the fabric. She didn’t want to go to Sergej. Not today. Not anymore. But then, thoughts of Bas surfaced, and that same knot tightened in her stomach.

Fall had passed faster than Evin had expected. The city’s Christmas lights reminded her how long it had been since she last had anything to do with Bas. Weeks. It felt like an eternity.

Back home, she changed quickly, tossed her workout clothes into the laundry, and slipped out again before her thoughts caught up.

The cool night air stung her lungs as she hurried on foot toward Sergej’s place. Every step felt like a burden.

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