Chapter 2 2

Fiction and Firelight

Lena sat on her bed, fingers tapping the edge of her laptop as the cursor blinked back at her from a blank Google Doc. She should've been outlining her next short story for Professor Ellison's fiction workshop, but all she could think about was him.

Adonis Biglia.

His name still didn't fit the picture she'd painted of him in her head during that first week of class. She'd assumed he'd be another quiet brooder with too many skeletons and not enough originality. But the truth was more layered, more intriguing. The kind of guy who said little but meant everything. The kind who'd drop one sharp observation and leave her thinking about it for hours.

She stared at the cursor, exhaled, then typed:

Some stories don't begin with a kiss.

Some start with a stranger who hands you your own voice, and dares you to use it.

She blinked.

Was that about Adonis?

She shook her head, highlighted the paragraph, and hit delete. No way she was writing that down where someone could read it.

Her phone buzzed.

Adonis:

You busy tonight?

She stared at the screen. Her fingers hovered.

Lena:

Kind of. Trying to write. Why?

Adonis:

I was going to check out that open mic at The Quarry. Thought you might be interested. No pressure.

Her heart jumped.

The Quarry was the cozy bar near the arts building that doubled as a poetry and performance venue once a month. Students would gather, some braver than others, to read their rawest work out loud-sometimes to applause, sometimes to silence, always to something real.

She'd never gone.

Mostly because the idea of reading her writing out loud to a room full of strangers made her skin itch.

Lena:

You reading?

Adonis:

Maybe. You should come.

She hesitated. Then typed:

Lena:

What time?

9:17 PM | The Quarry

The low hum of conversation filled the space, broken occasionally by bursts of laughter or the hiss of a beer tap. Edison bulbs dangled from the exposed beams, casting warm golden halos over everyone.

Lena stepped in, scanning the crowd. Most were older students-English majors with too much caffeine in their veins and dreams of New York publishing deals in their heads. A few professors lingered by the bar, already deep into craft beer and literary debates.

And then she saw him.

Adonis leaned against a pillar near the stage, his usual calm expression in place. He wore a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up, revealing ink that wrapped around his forearms-dark lines that hinted at something unspoken.

When their eyes met, he didn't smile. Just nodded, like he'd been waiting.

"You made it," he said as she approached.

"I figured I owed you a literary field trip."

He looked at her, slow and observant. "You nervous?"

"I'm not reading," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He didn't argue. Just turned his attention back to the stage, where a girl with a short afro and an army jacket was delivering a poem so fierce, half the room held its breath.

"You ever done this before?" she asked him quietly.

"Once."

"Why only once?"

"Because the words I said were meant for someone who wasn't there."

That made her throat go tight. She didn't ask for more.

The next reader stepped up. Then another. Each one raw and different, their words hanging heavy or floating soft, depending on what they carried.

Then the host returned to the mic and announced, "Next up, we've got... Adonis Biglia."

Lena's eyes snapped to him. "You said maybe."

He gave her a glance that almost-almost-looked like a grin. "Changed my mind."

He walked up to the mic, paper in hand, and paused. The room quieted, attention settling on him like gravity.

"This is untitled," he said.

And then he read.

His voice was low, steady. Not loud. Not dramatic. But something about the way he spoke- it pulled. Pulled at you. Demanded you listen.

She wore silence like armor, But I saw the cracks- Little fissures of flame where her fire wanted out. She said her words weren't enough, But I think the universe was made from the kind of things she whispered when she thought no one heard. And I heard... I still do.

By the time he stepped off the stage, the room clapped, but it wasn't wild or rowdy. It was reverent. Lena couldn't move. The words still echoed.

He sat back beside her, and for a moment, they didn't say anything.

"You wrote that recently?" she finally asked.

"Yeah."

"Is it about someone?"

He looked at her. Not away. Not down. Just straight at her.

"I think it's becoming about someone."

Her breath caught.

Before she could respond, the host took the mic again. "Last call for open mic! Anyone else?"

Adonis leaned toward her.

"You should do it."

She shook her head instantly. "No way."

"Why not?"

"Because... I'm not ready."

He studied her for a long second. Then said, "You're more ready than you think."

Her heart pounded. Her fingers curled around the folded page in her bag. She had brought something. Just in case.

She stared at the stage.

And then she stood up.

"I hate you a little right now," she muttered.

He leaned back in his chair. "You'll thank me later."

She walked slowly up to the mic. Her hands trembled. Her mouth felt dry. She looked out at the crowd-and saw Adonis watching. Not judging. Just there. She unfolded her paper.

"This is called Afterlight."

The words spilled from Lena's mouth like breath held too long. Once she started, she couldn't stop. Her voice, soft at first, grew steadier with each line. The poem wasn't dramatic or overly polished-it was raw, intimate, a confession she hadn't meant to make in front of strangers.

There's a version of me still waiting on the sidewalk,

Counting all the things I never said.

She's got fire in her hands, but she forgets she can burn.

She forgets she doesn't have to apologize for surviving.

By the time she reached the last stanza, a quiet hush had blanketed the room. No glasses clinking. No casual murmurs. Just silence-held, respectful, real.

If you're looking for the girl I used to be,

You'll find her in the spaces between goodbyes.

But if you want who I am now- She's still learning to speak without flinching.

She stepped back from the mic, breath catching like she'd just jumped off a cliff.

Then the applause came.

Lena blinked, stunned by it. Not just polite clapping- but real applause. Some people even stood. She hadn't expected that. She hadn't expected any of it.

Adonis met her at the bottom of the stage steps, holding out her coat.

"You were incredible," he said quietly.

Her cheeks flushed. "I can't believe I just did that."

"Believe it," he said, and for the first time, she saw something open in his face. Not admiration. Not praise. Something gentler. Deeper.

"Thanks for pushing me," she said.

"Anytime."

They stepped outside into the cool night air. The sky was clouded over, moonlight hazy. The buzz of the bar fell away behind them as they started walking with no particular destination.

Lena tucked her hands into her sleeves. "So... who taught you to write like that?"

He shrugged. "No one. I just... started. Needed a place to put things I couldn't say out loud."

"Is that what your poem was tonight? Something you couldn't say?"

He hesitated. "Yeah."

She wanted to ask more. About who it was for. About the things he carried around like shadows stitched into his spine. But something in his eyes told her to wait. So she did.

Instead, she said, "I've never let anyone hear my work before. Not even my best friend."

"That makes tonight even braver."

"Do you always say things like that?"

"Only when I mean them."

They paused at a corner where the campus paths split-one toward the dorms, the other toward the faculty buildings.

She looked at him. "You heading back?"

He glanced at his watch, then nodded. "Got work early tomorrow."

"Where do you work?"

"Bookstore downtown. Just weekends. Helps with rent."

She smiled. "Of course you work in a bookstore."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why 'of course'?"

"I don't know. It fits. You seem like someone who always smells like paperbacks and existential dread."

He actually laughed. Low and unfiltered. "And you seem like someone who overthinks punctuation and collects broken metaphors."

"I do collect metaphors," she said proudly.

Their eyes met again-quietly, this time. A pause stretched between them, charged and comfortable at once.

Adonis cleared his throat. "You want to meet again next week? Same spot, same time?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I'd like that."

He started to walk away, then turned over his shoulder. "You were fire tonight, Lena."

And just like that, he disappeared into the fogged-up night. Lena stood there for a moment, hand in her pocket where the folded poem still rested. Her heart was a little too loud. Her smile, a little too stubborn. She wasn't sure what this was between them. But it felt like the start of something worth chasing.