Chapter 4: The Illusion

Élianor

The following two weeks are a waking dream, a golden and unreal fantasy from which I fear waking at any moment. Raphaël does not simply keep his promise. He embodies it.

He is everywhere.

The day after our meeting in the park, I return to high school, fear in my stomach, expecting a new torment. But at my locker, a wildflower, a cornflower, is slipped through the slot. No note. Just this splash of bright color against the gray metal. My heart skips a beat.

In the hallway, he walks beside me. He doesn’t take my arm, doesn’t hold my hand; his presence alone is a declaration. He speaks, his calm voice covering the whispers.

— Have you finished the book I told you about, Élianor?

The looks are different. Less contempt, more astonishment. Curiosity. Jealousy, even, in the eyes of some girls.

Days pass. The cornflower is replaced by a daisy, then by a small branch of lilac. Every morning, a silent surprise awaits me. He foils all my plans to eat alone, sitting across from me in the cafeteria with his tray. He doesn’t even seem to notice the sidelong glances, the muffled laughter that gradually becomes less frequent.

— Tell me, he says. Tell me what you think of this poetry.

He listens to me. Truly. His green eyes are fixed on mine, he nods his head, he smiles at my thoughts. He treats me like an intellectual, like an equal. He talks about my “stormy eyes” and the “sweetness” of my voice. His compliments are lifelines to which I cling, keeping me afloat in an ocean of doubt.

Our secret meetings at the old mill become a habit. On the evenings when I can escape, we meet there, sitting on the cold stone, watching the river flow. He leans closer. One evening, his shoulder brushes against mine. A shiver runs through me. Another evening, he brushes a strand of my hair from my face, his fingers grazing my cheek. I hold my breath.

— You are so different from them, Élianor. So much more… real.

His words are a balm on the scars left by the “whale” and the “big lump.” Under his gaze, I start, timidly, to exist. I find myself smiling. Laughing, even, a forgotten sound, foreign to my own ears. I catch myself forgetting, at times, the weight of my body. He never mentions it. It’s as if, to him, this shell doesn’t exist. He sees only the inside, the soul he claims to discover.

It is a diligent, patient, enchanting courtship. He builds around me a glass palace made of attention and sweet words. I settle in, feeling safe, protected. Loved? The hope, forbidden and mad, sprouts in my wounded heart. What if it were true? What if he, Raphaël, saw what no one else had ever seen?

One night, under the moon, as the song of the crickets lulls our silences, he turns to me. His face is so close that I can feel his breath on my skin.

— Élianor, he murmurs.

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He leans in and brushes my lips with his. A kiss. Light as a feather, brief as a flutter of wings. The first. A burst of pure magic in my night.

When he pulls away, I am petrified, breathless, my lips burning. He smiles, a sad yet sweet smile.

— I have to go. See you tomorrow.

He leaves, leaving me alone, trembling, my heart racing. I bring my fingers to my lips. The taste of him is still there. The taste of lies, too, but I’m too drunk to recognize it.

I float home that evening. My sister, Liora, shoots me a sideways glance, disdainful yet intrigued.

— You look weird. Did you find another bag of chips to devour?

I don’t respond. I go up to my room, look at myself in the mirror. My reflection is the same. The shapeless mass, the round face. But for the first time, I think I see, in my gray eyes, a glimmer. A glimmer that Raphaël has ignited.

I lie down, face buried in the pillow, reliving that kiss over and over. It is the most beautiful night of my seventeen years. The sweetest. The cruelest.

I don’t yet know that I’m dancing on a tightrope, above an abyss. I don’t know that every tender look, every flower, every sweet word is a snip of scissors that weakens the ice beneath my feet. Raphaël is not my savior.

He is the architect of my ultimate fall. And in two weeks, to the day, he will himself push the trapdoor.