Silence. Silence was far more than the absence of noise — for Domenico, it had always been everything. It was his solace, his very own nature, his guide and the one thing he had sought with ease for all of those years. Many people usually pursued the path of devotion for a myriad of reasons, but he had done it for some peace and quiet. Looking back, it was easy for him to realize how successfully he had achieved that goal, even though other concerns nagged at his brain once or twice. After all, contrary to what a big portion of the world assumed, being one with the Church wasn’t overall simple. It involved self-control, and for his self-control to work out, he needed silence.

It wasn’t like Alfieri had many other options lined up for him throughout his years. Becoming a priest had been his father’s lifelong dream, enchanted with the idea of his son following up his steps. Domenico had always loved the sacred floors of the house of God, and he submitted to them willingly; day in and day out, he confided in the Lord’s presence, hoping It would give him the answers he so desperately needed. In the end, he hadn’t felt the pull to any other areas, and so began his path to the diocesan priesthood. In the beginning, that had felt way more than a vocation, but a calling. The Catholic Church truly believed God spoke to some men, solemnly asking them to dedicate their lives to His service. In Domi’s case, that hadn’t been any different.

The first part of his pursuit had been the easiest. Being the son of an important priest in the Vatican, his father had found no obstacles while pushing Domenico forward in the Church’s grounds, having him research the priesthood exhaustively and meet with the other seminarians in formation with frequency. He had lost count of how many retreats, workshops and discussion groups he had attended throughout his childhood and teenage years, always lost in the mindless tasks of prayers while all the other kids had been busy playing, laughing and being children. The way the man had lost his grip on reality while locked behind the heavy wooden doors of the church’s terrains was probably one of the reasons that made him see his decision with different, harsher eyes as he grew up. Once a simple, proud dream, becoming a religious example started consuming him. The peace he found within the revered heart of the Lord was no more: in its place, annoyance and distaste grew until they became incurable wounds.

And thus began the story of the one priest from the Cappella Niccolina that pretty much despised being a priest. His repulsion was hidden behind benevolent smiles and outreached hands to any of the faithful, and so far, not one of them had ever realized just how much of a fraud Domenico was. Most of those people would never, truly: after all, details like those were hardly ever noticed, let alone worried over. The congregation was busy thinking about all the ways their hypocrisy could be swept under the rug, and how they could show the rest of the world how they were better, and more believing, and more perfect subjects of God than any other person. It wasn’t Alfieri’s job to frown upon that. His job was to listen to citizen’s wishes and sins and give them a way out, or simply lie to them about how all could be forgiven. 

Of course, there were always exceptions to that matter. The man still loved the tranquility of his life, skipping down the clear pavement stones of the sacred city of the Vatican, laughing with children and receiving looks of wonder from any of the passersby whenever he went out donned in black, his imperious cassock flowing around. The robe wasn’t really that much appealing, but people clearly thought otherwise; after all, he had been chosen to be featured in the latest edition of the Calendario Romano, with all the other young, good-looking priests that stood out that year. It certainly was a pleasure, but also an honor, as seen that not many were picked for that job — and that place had always been brimming with men from the Church. That was no easy achievement. He was reminded of that on that very same day, as he made his usual commute to his chapel and overheard two girls giggling over the glossy pages of the calendar. Domenico had let out a chuckle himself; he couldn’t deny it was funny how the reverend authorities specifically chose the ones that looked better to grace the booklet. In the end, that was highly appreciated by him.

That afternoon had been uneventful so far, apart from seeing a few communicants regarding some event that would be happening in those next days. Even though the Vatican was terribly small and the most peaceful at times, he was always forgetting just how touristic that parcel of land could be, and because of that, the Church had to constantly come up with events to keep the visitors entertained. He would have called it a day, if it wasn’t for one last group that came in for a tour: one that had been clocking in every year ever since he was a kid, and that his father had treated with utmost respect, for they were almost part of the family. He could only offer the same courtesy now that he had assumed the man’s post.

As he came out from his office, tucked behind the altar and well-hidden by the madness of corridors and doors that most people had no idea existed inside a church, the first thing he heard was laughter. It made him smile: Domenico hated how stuck-up some people could be whenever they entered holy grounds, always chastising children for their delighted screams and trying to act superior for their behavior. That place demanded respect, but not always austerity, and he made sure his faithful understood that. He could not catch from who the chuckling had come from, but he bulldozed nonetheless. Because right in front of him was someone that Alfieri never thought he would ever see again, but that still stood there, all long limbs and flowy hair and perfection. 

Before religion became his life, for some days, his father had still let him play, and laugh, and simply be. Being a kid had always been the best thing that had ever happened to him, for it made him remember to see the world with gentler eyes constantly, but also because he had met her back in the day, when sheets and prayers and responsibility still weren’t a reality. Alessandra had been his favorite infant dream, one that he had tucked inside his heart for years to no end. His obsession with that subject was hardly appeasing, but it still thrived; late at night, when no one could translate his emotions into anything else, when being a priest didn’t remind him how he had given up on so many things in order to excel at his job. It hadn’t been all bad: after all, it had brought him to her, even if only for a few eventful summers.

No one could imagine his surprise to finally seeing her standing there, after all those years of pining and praying and trying very hard to forget about some silly childhood crush. He had no idea what had happened to her, where she lived, how she led on her days and if she still remembered him. The answer was probably no: Domenico had grown from a puny brat to a respectable, charming man, while she had maintained some kind of ageless, simple beauty. 

Those catlike eyes were still as sharp as ever, and so was her mouth. He had only caught the end of her sentence, but that had been a good enough excuse for him to step over, hands crossed behind his back and the same unswayed posture gracing the small circle of the Mori family. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, since Father Severino is no more.” He tried soothing the harsh tenor of his voice, but to no avail: it still reverberated through the stones of the silent chapel, booming just like any other day whenever he conducted his mass. “But surely that won’t be a problem?” Head slanted, he took a few precious seconds to go over Alessandra’s body with his eyes, tucking those sinful curves far, far away into his brain. One look had to be enough, and then he had to remind himself what his job actually was for the rest of those days. “People say that children take after their parents, and I seem to be a good enough replacement.” Alfieri chuckled lightly, winking at Alessia’s sister, way more austere than the younger one, as usual. “With all due respect. May he rest in peace.”

She had successfully skipped the annual family vacation to Vatican the last two years, ironically assigning that to the little bit of faith she had. If God and the saints wanted her to go, they wouldn’t have had the admission exam for her desired masters degree dated for the middle of the week, and then they wouldn’t have made the hottest guy she had met at that point ask her to spend the Spring holiday with him somewhere. In some way, those were God’s plans for her. How could she go against that?

All that luck had been spent in those two years. When her mother demanded her presence on the vacation, penniless-afraid she wouldn’t be able to finish her thesis-striken by a perpetually unstable love life-Alessandra had no choice but to say yes, mama, I look forward to it, hoping it would make asking for some money easier and less humiliating. Showing up at the house drunk and miserable difficulted her act, though. If anything, she felt as the main character in a season of The White Lotus, and also the one who was murdered in the end.

Facing it was the only choice, and so she would do. High temperatures and awkward breakfast aside, it was a nice day. Her parents were too busy with her sister’s husband to give her attention, it was too hot for her to try ruining the day, her brother was being strangely quiet, and at the first opportunity her sister pulled her to go back to being awful teenagers and ditch the family to explore for themselves. Just another usual Mori family vacation, and as she hadn’t be in one lately, she couldn’t really complain.

As they loved to do in the simpler times, the first thing they did was looking for boys. Not actively, since her sister was married, but just strolling and laughing everytime they passed by a guy they thought was hot. They weren’t known for having a particularly good relationship, so it was nice to just go and have a bit of fun before returning to the schedule. No harm in having ice cream while analyzing the most recent edition of the great calendario romano and saying I wouldn’t mind confessing with him to every single priest showcased in the pages. They’d finish their desserts and go back, Alessandra hiding the calendar on her purse so her sister could have it later.

Until they stumbled upon a photo of a priest so gorgeous Alessandra had to take a break, even more shocked by the information that it was the priest of the same church they visited and frequented every year during the trip. The old priest she knew since childhood had passed away, and great Father Domenico had been there since then. Oh, she clearly had to make up for her absence in the last two years.

No amounts of no, Alessia, stop whatever you’re thinking would be enough to distract her. Suddenly, Alessandra was ready to go, chuckling to herself while her sister pretended to not understand her new behavior. Showing up with her deranged family wouldn’t be attractive at all, but debating whether it was okay to even think like that also wasn’t good.

She didn’t even want to do something bad, for Christ’s sake! Taking a look at a handsome man wasn’t a sin, even if he was a priest. Just taking a look, that was it. It would be a nice thing to think about for the next days. After checking herself on the phone camera, reapplying her lipstick and assuring her mother she would be on her best behavior for the visit (not even her mother wanted to look bad in front of the hot priest, apparently), Alessandra was ready for the tour, letting her family members go ahead.

He supposes he already has. Refusing living is giving up, most people would say, and the eager, starved for something, version of Asher that now only existed in the past would agree. He can visualize the lines he used to write about this subject during college: there is no point of existing if you have no burning passion to fight for, no desire to fulfill. Even the desire to mind your business and stay quiet is valid. One must be curious, though everyone has a different way to do so. No curiosity? No lust? No life. Simple as that.

Asher waits and isolates himself in YangYang, the place he grew in and fought so hard to get away from. He had been brilliant one day, really! Believe him! Promising student, promising writer, promising friend, promising lover. Promising husband. He had always been a shitty son, though. It seems unfair that, in the end, family had been his only safety net when everything else turned out to fail: his parents had been kind enough to leave the Yang Yang house in his name, almost as a way to assure he would never be able to say they didn’t do anything for him. He can hear them: oh, he did so much and ended up needing us anyway. Dreaming of being a writer. Shitty kid.

Shitty kid. Shitty student, shitty writer, shitty friend, shitty lover. Shitty husband. There is no way of getting around it: that’s his legacy. He is going to leave behind a sour taste and some dumb books, one that he wrote when he was so young and stupid it was possible to hear the pretentiousness in every single line, others that displayed such a facade of him that he wasn’t even brave enough to assume. Maybe all that was for the best. He wasn’t the first one to have a terrible life, and he wouldn’t be the last. The end must come. Wait.

But while he waits, a potential distraction showed up: Joan. Joan Song. Same girl he used to swoon over during class, same girl he used to follow after class just to be annoying, prettier, smarter and more tempting than ever. But more melancholic than Asher’d expect, if he could ever expect anything from her. He tiptoed around this edge, biting his tongue instead of asking what happened, ignoring the urge to discover every little thing about her, from what she did since the last time they met to what were her favorite childhood memories.

Somehow, he ended up finding out this kind of thing. And revealing this kind of thing about himself. He wrote a book, he got married. He wasn’t the type of person to regularly think about his childhood, but he really liked having calm afternoons at home. His mother busy with something, his father busy with something, little Asher enjoying the silence. It was a good kind of sadness. It could be better, but he knew how it could be worse.

Continuar lendo

Power was the headiest of venoms.

For Keisuke, that wasn’t simply a given. After years and years dedicating his time and patience to the studies of long-lost psychology masters, who knew everything and a bit more about the human mind, it didn’t seem wrong to assume he would end up attracted to the darkest corners of the practice. Instead of a creature of habit, he was one of curiosity. Depravity called to him like nothing else did; understanding where power came from as he exerted it himself was no more a test than a need.

Those days, the invisible pieces of the chessboard that seemed to be his life moved quickier, within orchestrated, well-thought moves. Accepting the job as his favorite professor’s adjunct instructor hadn’t been what he had wanted initially, yet having so many privileges and way too much free time could end up being a dangerous indulgence. And because of that, spending his hours preparing the most perfect lectures and revising his students’ papers made for a perfect counteract to the rest of his days working on his own research.

During those classes, Kei had unrestricted access to the raw minds of freshly-integrated undergraduates, the ones who still knew so little about the vast world of psychology, but that held so much potential to being steadily molded by him. With time, he could introduce the brightest ones to the right studies, taking pride in being a guide, a powerful source that could be looked up to.

But nothing ever really went how people wished it did. Keisuke could’ve never predicted someone like Somi; a student who had just recently transferred her major, a new addition to his class. Way more than he liked to admit, his eyes seemed to stray to her dark, sharp ones, to her quick-witted addendums to the lecture and the mere way she lived and breathed around him. He could feel it growing slowly, right on the base of his neck: the small pinprick of an obsession. It was almost impossible to avert it.

Such recognizal made him slightly sick. He knew virtually nothing about her apart from the data that the academy kept about Kwon Somi, and not knowing had always been something Kei couldn’t adjust to. Sooner than later, she consumed his thoughts; the girl had no idea about her impact, about the danger of being caught on his snare. Even if he could explain it, he feared he wouldn’t. As Higa had learned throughout his life of studies, uncovering the human brain could be fatal; knowledge wasn’t always enlightening. Depravity was best kept at its lair, the hidden, dark corners of the mind.

To him, however, hiding had never been an option. Kei had started pursuing her annoyingly, boldly crossing the moral line of the type of relationship a senior should maintain with a student. Try as he might, the man had never lived by humanity’s morality code, and making up some excuse to have her near him way after visiting hours wasn’t a hardship - not to his conscience, nor to the academy. Somi could’ve perfectly submitted her paper the morning after. She just had no idea about that.

And that was how he found himself hovering over her after he convinced the girl to sit down and go over her text for the thousandth time. His eyes cataloged every lift of breath, every hair on her head disturbed by sudden movements. Keisuke was enraptured by such natural beauty, to the symmetry of those sharp lines. For some insane, primal reason, he needed her around him. He simply had to find out why.

“Check that paragraph again.” Disrupting those intrusive thoughts, Kei pointed to one of the first paragraphs of her well-elaborated paper, one that needed absolutely no revision at all. He took that precious instant to surround her hunched form from behind the chair, so close he could feel the heat emanating from her body. After so long studying crazy people, he feared he would end up going insane as well.

The tension comes to a point where she has to excuse herself for a moment, rushing out of the room without waiting for an answer, not sure if she wants Keisuke to follow her or not. Not sure if she should want Keisuke to follow her or not. But she leaves, realizes that she was holding her breath around him all that time, inhales and exhales and mentally prepares herself for getting in that room again, this time with no rushing out. She will look at him in the eyes, patiently wait for him to be done, leave totally unaffected by their little meeting. All her emotions end up seen as trivialities, obstacles in the middle of such a well planned path, and this time is no different. Especially this time. Calm down, Somi tells herself. Don’t act like that around him.

She’d like to say she doesn’t know how much effect he has on her, why she unconsciously began looking for Keisuke around the campus, why she had to hold back the urge to ask about him who were there longer. It had been already worse enough to observe how the other girls chatted with him, analyze who probably had a crush or else. She really would like to say she doesn’t even realize all that new tendencies, but her brain is quick enough to provide some possible answers. He is older. Good at what he does. Superior to her, in the sense of their hierarchy. Seemingly confident of himself. Makes her feel like she is under a microscope every time they talk. Somi can’t help but swoon over him in her own way, which is wishing he was dead.

Uneasiness was an emotion she was getting used to, much to her distaste. First when she realized she was unsatisfied with her major: her life seemed to be out of the tracks, with an agony that seemed to to be enough for a whole lifetime to match. She felt herself becoming dull, colorless, walking around with no sense of what she was going to do next. She was so close to graduating, couldn’t she just hang on for a few more semesters? Should she graduate and start a new major right after? Was the solution giving up altogether and travel the world like all righteous heiresses did, spending the money her family was so proud of?

Giving up was never the answer for Somi. It was a little humilliating, even painful, having to explain what had happened to her social communication degree, but everyone could agree that psychology fit her like a glove. It didn’t matter if people meant it as a compliment or simple acknowledgement of her personality (to not directly say there is something wrong with you), it was a consensus. She was perfect for the new major. Her life was moving in the right direction again.

Until older, competent, witty Keisuke showed up and took the sense of balance she had just recollected. Now she is the type of person who almost has a breakdown before every lecture, and spends more time than the needed study to make sure she will do well for him. Yes, she turned in the paper late because she had accidentally missed the deadline, but also because she was afraid of the possibility of him finding any mistakes. She had to make her own correction, assure that he’d have no option in the end but to praise her.

She could never be grateful enough for fate and its steady, sometimes even generous hand: that was an aphorism that Adeline certainly lived by. After all, how could she not, when its machinations gave way to encounters such as that one, so incredibly inconceivable, but so very much needed? Somehow, deep down, the French girl understood that she had to meet Haneul again in that exact afternoon, that exact train, exact wagon. It was written in the stars. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the same interesting girl that walked the same campus that she did just a few months ago was now sitting in front of her: it couldn’t have been just anyone, but her, especially. Jumping from town to town during all those weeks, Addie met wonderful, exciting new people that changed her way of thinking in many aspects and made her see the world in a different light. Sometimes they challenged her, otherwise they enchanted her. She never left a place being the same as she had been. And Haneul made her wonder what exactly that beautiful person would gift her when their time together was over. For the first time in months, she didn’t want them to part so soon. Adeline just had no idea why. 

Addie smiled peacefully in encouragement when asked about the new destination of her sketch. “It could never be mine. It is yours to keep. After all, it’s your elegant face that juts out from this mess of lines, is it not?”. Chuckling, she carefully detached the flimsy page off her notebook, sliding it in Haneul’s direction. The girl’s offer made her eyes light up with joy as soon as she made the proposal, mind reeling with all the possibilities of a new drawing filled with such exciting features such as hers. Adeline loved drawing every single thing and person that struck her as interesting enough in a certain way, but a few of them were definitely worthier than others. That was the other girl’s case. She could dedicate pages and pages just to have a chance of making good use of her abilities — and Haneul’s undeniable beauty. 

As soon as her eyes went up again and found the girl striking one of the most classical poses when it came to studying the human form, Adeline let out a wholehearted laugh. “Yes, that’s a good one. You know, every time I offer to draw someone, they instantly position themselves like that. I love the quick response.” When Haneul offered to take a picture of her sketch, she instantly agreed. “I’d absolutely love that. How would it capture the drawing best? Like this?” Addie centralized the now detached page right in the middle of the rickety table. A second later, she fixed it somewhere else, where she thought light would strike best. “Or like this?” Eternally indecisive, the French girl then held the paper next to her, smiling cheekily. “Maybe a pic of the artist and the art would be even better.”

In a certain way, Haneul was so very much like Addie. They were both unshackled by the most unsettling notions in the world, such as having a steady job, or studying hard to graduate as soon as possible. Of course, having money enough to be able to travel at leisure and whenever they wanted definitely helped. But even then, one had to want to live that kind of life in order to be truly happy with it. And because of that, the French girl laughed in pure understanding after hearing her old university peer joke about the perfect timing for such a trip. “Well, I couldn’t agree more. After all, tickets are much cheaper this time of the year. The rest of the world is too busy living in the fast lane.” With a smirk, Adeline slid her sketchbook next to her again. She stared at Haneul for a long, liberating minute, almost punctuating her mention of the way people couldn’t seem to downtrend their rhythm. Picking up her pencil, she started roughing out the girl’s frame yet again, something that felt as easy as breathing. “I take it you’ve got many beautiful registers from all the places you’ve been to until now, yes? I’d love to see them, if you’d let me.” 

She came up from her mind’s wanderings after some time, lost in the most precious details of her drawing as their conversation went on. “Oh, yes, Italy. Such a fun country.” Chuckling, Addie held her pencil next to Haneul’s face, measuring the dimensions of her project. “I went to beautiful Palermo and Bergamo as well. The perfect place to settle down if not for the crazy parties some kids throw at their gigantic homes. Those stones hold stories, alright. But what about you?” She set the chart down, her elbows resting on the table and slender fingers holding her chin as the French girl stared at her muse. “Where are you coming from and where do you go from here?”

Travelling alone meant spending a long time with only her thoughts as company, and she sure liked to engage with them. She had once read that time with yourself was time spent with the world, and had she never thought of something more honest than that. Being alone in her conditions can be tricky, Haneul knows, but how beautiful it is to witness (and portrait) life slowly developing itself. Being part of a non-routine, seeing the experience through different lenses, knowing that all the people she meets have their own destinations to arrive, their fates to pursue. Maybe nothing would be different if she wasn’t there, but she was glad to be. Two particular thing were much appreciated by her: being able to leave her mark wherever she passed by, and having the opportunity of a life-changing experience at any given moment. Her encounter with Adeline could be brief, but it was already something to think about later, when moving from a train to another or trying to make her way through a new city.

“Yes, but it could never be my elegant face if it wasn’t drawn by your beautiful hands. It’s great, really. More than great. I think that’s my favorite portrait of me now.” She carefully traces the lines of the sketch with her fingers, once again admiring it. She had been drawn a few times since the trip started, examples being an infamous one-week long affair with a terrible painter and and a snarky caricaturist in Brussels, making Addie the definitive favorite. Haneul suspected that, even if the girl had better contenders, she would remain as the winner. “Like this! Stop!” She pointed her camera to the French girl holding the drawing, involuntarily imitating her smile. She didn’t have to check to know it was a good picture. “I’m feeling like I have a whole Picasso in my hands and no one knows it. When you become famous and a subject of study in universities, make sure to tell about your train tales. It’s exactly the type of story those guest speakers tell.” She laughs alone. “Though you seem more the type to not give any interviews.”

She nods to the mention of cheaper tickets and living in another rythmm, another pro to the list. It was even funny sometimes: while her college mates posted about the works they were doing and how desperately they wanted to graduate by morning, she posted pictures with her temporary friends and complained about dirty European corners by night. Every time it happens, she smils to herself and tries to hold that feeling of contentness close to the heart, happy for finally doing something fulfilling in every way. She doesn’t regret her choice, that’s the right thing to assume. “Oh, yes! I think I don’t go an hour awake without taking a picture, even in the train. Here it is.” She passes the camera gently, always happy to show off her endeavors. “True! It’s insane how some of these ‘little’ places hold so many things. So many heirs and heiresses casually taking their vacations, too. I’ve been to Palermo, too, and Sicily, with a very urgent stop in Venice. Lots of days tanning and learning how to make wine, though I could only barely understand the people around me.” She smiles at the memories of her Italian acquaintances, people who so tenderly and easily opened their houses to her and made sure she was well. She hoped people would be as kind to her in the next stop. 

Her eyes lightened up with the chance of being able to keep the drawing, smiling together with Adeline while the other girl described her sweet meetup. Although she wasn’t there, she knew exactly that feeling of having something so special that otherwise could go easily unnoticed: it was part of why she did not want to go home yet. As much as Haneul loved traveling alone and going through the whole bohemian life, she knew that it could easily become a lonely experience: some cities made her feel like the wise thing to do was booking another ticket and going directly to her parents' house. However, being on a trip assured that you were prone to have lots of new possibilities every day, and meeting kind strangers, just like Adeline did, certainly helped endure the circumstances. “Can I keep it too, then?” She gave another careful glance to the sketchbook, still infatuated by their situation. It was hard to not feel a little bit shy while imagining the girl analyzing her features just a few minutes ago, trying to picture it properly even from a distance. Flattering, to say the least. “You can make another one if you want, now that I am closer. I guess we still have some time.” Haneul rested her chin on the back of her hand in what she thought was a classical modeling position, chuckling right away. “Or I can just take a picture if you want to save this one. I’ve been trying to document everything since I got here.” She pointed to her digital camera, the most prized possession she had in Europe.

There weren’t many things that were able to hold down 20 something gorgeous women, at least not the ones with no strings attached. That seemed to have become Adeline’s motto; after eventful years that had brought her little but heartache and distress, she deemed herself ready to live the good life, the one she had been brought into that world to live. No more ex-girlfriends who left her for better options, no more stupid flings with distasteful men who always ended up with the boring option, no more living in the sidelines of a coming of age movie where she seemed to play the part of the way-too-hot friend, the one who had everything set, but that never really got her closure if not premedited by the heroine’s will. Screw them, anyway. They weren’t like Addie, vivacious and hungry for life, ready to seize her days until the very end, to have the last laugh. 

Yet, in order to fulfill that romantic, otherworldly dream, the French girl had to begin somewhere. And that was how she found herself leaving her little life behind without even sparing a breath, packing her bags and calling off the fancy internship her instructors had gotten set for her after graduating from the arts academy. Nothing really mattered to Adeline in the grand scheme of things; she was rich enough not to care about dissolving the steady and reliable days that she had been living in South Korea, nothing but a call to her parents being needed to set her plan into motion. Although used to a very wealthy lifestyle, a bonne vivante in her own terms, this time, Addie had decided to take a step back and see things through different eyes. A few clicks and a one-way ticket secured later, and nothing else mattered.

That had happened at least six months ago. Adeline had quickly discovered that nothing suited her better than the bohemian way of living, jumping from train to train and hostel to hostel, never looking back, never stopping. She made friends along the way, collected her hefty debt of broken-hearted lovers and one night stands that never really wanted her to leave. Yet the French girl couldn’t afford the interruption, nor the sense that, one day, everything would have to be disregarded in order to face reality and become the adult woman her family expected her to be. But before that ever came crashing down, she would enjoy life to the fullest, a frenzy of backpacks, dingy shared rooms and rumpled clothes. None of those were able to steal the healthy, gorgeous shine of her smart almond eyes, always so attentive to everything around her, yet nothing at all. Nonetheless, being a nomad made for the best artistic whims she had ever had; her paintings and sketches had evolved in ways none of her instructors could’ve ever expected, since the answer surely wasn’t guarded on packed ateliers and boring lectures.

Such unspoken truth seemed to be a given as she traced her charcoal pencil over and over on her sketchbook, giving form to her latest want. One of Addie’s favorite things about living the train life was that every single passenger was interesting enough to end up on her yellowed pages, eternized by her slender, expert fingers and beautiful technique. This one, a girl her age and just as rumpled as she seemed to be, gave the French girl a funny, staggering feeling of déjà vu, so very sure of her intuition as her brain whacked itself into trying to make sense of where the hell she had seen the dark-haired woman before. The doubt whooshed out of her mind the moment the same girl got up and made her way to Adeline, speaking the exact words she wanted to hear. Her affinity to fate seemed to be one of her best traits, and such thought made her plump lips curve up on a bright, warm smile. 

“I was sitting here and thinking the exact same thing while I tried to remember where I had seen you before.” Adeline chuckled lightly, her rough, way too polite English a bit rusty from the weeks she had spent around France, speaking her mother tongue to her heart’s content. “Thank you for clearing it up. Haneul, isn’t it?” The girl’s name slithered swiftly through her lips, the pronunciation slightly crooked. Nevertheless, Addie still extended one slender hand to the empty seat in front of her, gesturing for Haneul to sit down. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I was just about to finish something for you, believe it or not.” Arching one elegant eyebrow, the French girl slid her sketchbook in the dark-haired woman’s direction, not even the slightest distress from being caught red handed drawing her being found on her open features.

“It is. Let me just get my things.” She smiled softly, glad for being recognized by the other girl. Hearing someone address her as Haneul, after such a considerable time introducing herself and being called by multiple nicknames, seemed strange to her ears, like the weird feeling of being reminded of something that she should not have forgotten. However, more than pleased to join the girl and have some company for the rest of the ride, she didn’t hesitate to grab her bag and camera and sit down in front of Adeline, curiously glancing over the content of the exposed pages. "Oh! So I was considered pretty enough to be on your sketchbook?” Chuckling lightly, Haneul tucked a single strand of hair behind the ear while carefully tracing down the drawing with the fingers of the other hand, admiring it. Her own artistic skills were limited to drawing little hearts and tiny flowers in a childlike style all over her journals, which made her appreciate and value the portrayal even more. "That's so pretty, actually. What an honor! Did you start drawing it to distract yourself? Train rides can be such a drag." Her calm look turned into an exaggerated grimace of despair, sighing dramatically before going back to her natural expression. She could spend a year travelling around by train and she still wouldn't get used to it.

Gently giving the sketchbook back to Adeline, Haneul took the opportunity to properly accommodate herself, only now acknowledging how odd that meetup was. Close wasn't the right word to describe them back in the days of studying in the same place, but total strangers was a bit of a stretch. Park didn't know a lot about Addie besides the fact that she was French and an artist, a mysterious and elegant figure occasionally seen between a class and a break. At best, she could say that they perceived each other as much as two students from different courses could do, making it even weirder for the two of them to accidentally be together in the same place, the same train, the same moment, so far away from Korea. A striking coincidence.

There was only one problem: she realized too late that she didn't particularly care about any university-related things. Why would she? Filmmaking definitely wasn't about attending classes and fighting over essays with arrogant teachers. Where was all the enlightenment and wiseness teachers were supposed to provide to a student? The magical university experience? Crazy parties and heated debates? Long talks about personal secrets and philosophy? Lily Rose's sweet sixteen was better than any party she had attended in college, if you need something to compare. Four wasted years and a raging headache: that's what she got for trying to do things right. After some time, attending classes started to seem like looking directly into an abyss, and as dramatic as she was, it became unbearable. Haneul had to get away, even if that meant dropping out of college on her last year and proving that she was even more irresponsible than people thought (she preferred to describe herself as free-spirited, not irresponsible, though). An exceptional passion for feeling good and having fun wasn't a crime, and that's what motivated her to drop out, pack her things and buy a one-way ticket to Madrid. That time, she wasn't going to rush herself.

Predictably, she didn't have much trouble trying to fit into the rich european lifestyle. With so many friends and contacts around the world, Haneul found her way to a new place to stay almost every week, always leaving her previous location with promises to meet again with the new acquaintances and a bag full of generic souvenirs. After traveling around what felt like the whole continent, all train stations started looking the same, and she gladly accepted those as her temporary home.

Haneul never was a person who liked to be with alone, but she soon found out that she didn't mind being alone in trains. It felt like being part of something more important: all those people wanted to get to their destination, and there was nothing they could do to make sure they would be arriving soon. They were all losing precious time. Hours, but still, precious time. Being aware of that made her able to relax and even stop looking at the watch every five minutes, usually too focused on going through her camera to notice the train moving and remember her own impatience.

Rock n’ roll não era difícil. Rock n’ roll era a coisa mais simples em sua vida. Aquele era um pensamento recorrente de Daisy até pouco tempo atrás; quando tudo parecia dar errado e as consequências de suas escolhas questionáveis tomavam forma, era naquilo que se agarrava, uma lembrança agradável e acolhedora perante o caos de seus dias. Tal mantra, porém, provava-se cada vez mais equivocado a cada novo dia enfurnada na casa de praia com Billy Dunne. O ingresso na banda do homem havia sido uma surpresa agradável e um hobby do qual Jones não desejava se desfazer tão cedo, sendo a única diversão que permeava seus dias desde que decidira dar uma pausa nas recreativas. A necessidade de recorrer aos entorpecentes tornava-se mais forte cada vez que era contrariada, ignorada e subestimada pelo músico — era possível afirmar que, se dependesse de sua falta de controle e do acatamento das vozes em sua cabeça, àquela altura do campeonato, a californiana estaria internada em um centro de reabilitação. 

A possibilidade de alguns instantes de paz e tranquilidade na piscina tornou-se um sonho distante assim que avistou Dunne descartar parte de seu trabalho duro ao que parecia ser a centésima vez. Os dois jamais conseguiam chegar em um consenso e aquilo tornava o processo de produção das canções extremamente longo e entediante; o músico conseguia tornar até mesmo seu lazer mais precioso na maior das dores de cabeça. Apesar daquilo, Daisy vez ou outra se esforçava para relevar a aperreação de Billy e ignorar suas tentativas desesperadas de inserir a mulher e os filhos nas letras que compunham. Jones não era casada e nem mesmo desejava ser, e a mera ideia de criar uma criança a fazia rir. Rock não era sobre aquilo, e por mais que seu colega desejasse que fosse, ela faria questão de relembrá-lo que possuía uma voz nas decisões dos dois, sem se importar com o que deveria fazer para provar seu ponto.

“Whatever. Scoot over.” Fora pensando naquilo que Daisy ignorou a explicação fajuta do outro a respeito da mudança da letra, empurrando-o sem a menor delicadeza ao acomodar-se junto dele no banco pequeno. Com os papéis amassados e a caneta em mãos, releu os versos uma, duas vezes, buscando qualquer que fosse o indício de que Dunne estava certo e de que o que havia escrito não seria necessário. Jamais poderia negar que o homem era talentoso de um modo praticamente enfurecedor, mas o próprio orgulho a impedia de reconhecer tal fato, e muito menos de concordar com ele. “This looks shallow as fuck, Billy. We need my lines. It feels like there’s something missing when you leave them out of it.” Murmurando a melodia que julgava ser adequada ao terceiro verso, deixou com que a própria voz rouca e arrastada justificasse o erro do músico por si só ao cantar a estrofe junto do resto das linhas alheias. Com um sorrisinho sardônico repuxando os lábios ao final, a californiana encarou o colega, satisfeita. “See?”

Whatever. Scoot over. Além de todas as drogas, o que mais lhe irritava era a postura displicente que Daisy Jones parecia adorar demonstrar, como se tudo aquilo fosse um passatempo. Não duvidaria se descobrisse que ela realmente via o trabalho (a coisa mais importante na sua vida, logo após a família) como uma mera distração. Era difícil acreditar que ela estava tão empenhada e concentrada em cumprir seu papel na banda quando sempre chegava atrasada, alterada ou sem paciência. Geralmente, os três combinados. Já havia feito uma grande lista mental sobre os malefícios que ela poderia trazer à longo prazo: sua instabilidade e o mistério que envolvia Daisy Jones poderiam chamar a atenção do público tão facilmente quanto poderiam atrasar turnês e afastar boas oportunidades. Se ela começasse a se mostrar um fardo e dificultasse o trabalho, não pensaria duas vezes antes de pôr um ponto final naquilo e a mandar de volta para o mesmo lugar de onde nunca deveria ter saído.

De primeira, tinha pensado na possibilidade de convencer Daisy a se internar, repensar suas decisões de vida, talvez diminuir a quantidade daqueles comprimidos que estavam sempre em seus bolsos ou reduzir o número de taças de champanhe antes do horário de almoço para apenas duas. Daisy Jones era tão talentosa e inteligente que, com um pouco de senso e apoio, poderia cair em si e se livrar daquilo. Infelizmente, era impossível controlar um viciado, principalmente um viciado que menospreza seus próprios problemas. Tudo que podia fazer era observar de uma distância respeitável, torcendo para que ela sobrevivesse mais uma sessão, e mais uma, e mais uma. Será que conseguiriam juntar material para um álbum inteiro antes de que algo sério acontecesse com ela?