Episode 3
1378 Words
FICTION AND FRICTION
Eloise Granger was not in love with Rowan Hale.
That mantra repeated itself like a metronome as she stood in front of the workshop group the following morning, her notes held in one hand, her sanity in the other. The bookstore buzzed with warm chatter, the clink of mugs, and the occasional thud of a wayward paperback falling from a crowded shelf.
She smiled at her students—June, who always brought her dog-eared notebook with heart stickers on the cover; Caleb, the shy teen who wrote sapphic fantasy under a pseudonym; Marcy, the retired teacher with a wicked sense of humor; and others who seemed genuinely eager to learn about romance tropes and narrative pacing.
And then there was Rowan.
He lingered just beyond the edge of the group, pretending to organize books on a nearby shelf, but his presence was like static in the air. Eloise didn’t have to look to know he was watching her. He was always watching her now.
Today’s topic: “Longing, Conflict, and the Slow Burn.”
The irony wasn't lost on her.
“Okay,” Eloise began, voice steady even though her insides felt like they were skating on melting ice. “Let’s talk about tension. The kind that makes your reader want to scream into a pillow because the characters refuse to admit they’re in love.”
A few people chuckled. One woman in the back actually swooned.
“It’s about proximity,” Eloise said. “The near-touches. The things left unsaid. You need friction—conflict that simmers. It’s not about fighting for the sake of it. It’s about building emotional stakes so that when the characters finally give in, the payoff feels earned.”
June raised a brow. “So… kind of like enemies-to-lovers?”
“Or lovers-to-enemies-to-something-that-looks-like-forced proximity,” Eloise muttered under her breath, glaring at a certain someone.
Rowan, of course, chose that exact moment to walk past her with a crate of new arrivals.
“Need any help demonstrating slow burns?” he asked smoothly.
The entire group burst into laughter.
Eloise forced a smile that could’ve cut glass. “Only if you’re volunteering to be the cautionary tale.”
June whispered to Marcy, “This is better than Netflix.”
Eloise pressed on with the lesson, scribbling a few examples on the whiteboard—Jane Austen’s Persuasion, Sally Thorne’s The Hating Game, her own novel What Lovers Do in September. The discussion circled around yearning glances, stolen moments, and devastating silences.
It wasn’t until the session ended and the group began dispersing that Eloise realized her hand was still trembling.
She didn’t expect to find Rowan waiting for her outside the store.
He leaned against the brick wall beside her car, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the street like he wasn’t already thinking a thousand things he’d never say aloud.
“You gave a good talk,” he said when she approached.
“I wasn’t aware you were still eavesdropping.”
“I wasn’t. I was shelving books. The acoustics are just… incredibly well-designed.”
Eloise folded her arms. “If you’re looking for a thank-you—”
“I’m not.” He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “I just wanted to ask you something.”
She arched a brow. “What?”
He hesitated. “Do you still have it?”
“Have what?”
“The photo. Of us. The one from Halloween senior year. You dressed as the girl from Amélie, and I was that embarrassingly dramatic poet with the fake crow.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “That’s what you’re asking me?”
“I’ve been wondering,” he said softly. “It was framed on your desk once. Right next to your typewriter.”
Eloise didn’t know why her throat felt tight. “It’s in a box. Somewhere. Probably with all the other things I don’t let myself look at anymore.”
Rowan nodded, solemn. “I just… liked that version of us. Before everything got messy.”
She could’ve said a hundred things. Could’ve asked why he never followed up when she didn’t answer the letter, or why he hadn’t fought harder when she left.
But she didn’t.
Because this wasn’t the moment.
Instead, she whispered, “I liked that version too.”
That evening, Eloise returned to her rental cottage to find a package waiting on her porch.
No return label. No handwriting.
Inside: a vintage romance novel—Letters to Lysandra—one of her all-time favorites. Except this copy had her name written faintly on the inside cover.
She opened it slowly.
Halfway through the book, between chapters, something fluttered out.
A letter.
Folded, yellowed, sealed with wax in the shape of a tiny flame.
Her heart thudded.
She broke the seal and unfolded the pages with trembling fingers.
The handwriting wasn’t familiar. The ink was smudged. But the words…
“He never stopped loving you. Even when he thought you’d moved on. He wrote to you more than once. Not just the letter in your dorm mailbox. There were others. Someone kept them from you. Someone didn’t want you to know the truth.”
Her breath hitched.
No signature. No indication of who sent it. Just cryptic lines that made her stomach twist.
She reread it three times.
Then again.
Until the words blurred.
The next day, she didn’t mention the letter.
Instead, she hosted another workshop session, focused on subtext and dialogue, barely holding it together while her mind screamed a thousand possibilities.
Rowan noticed, of course. He watched her with narrowed eyes and a crease between his brows like he could feel the change in her.
After the group left, he cornered her near the travel section.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re pacing your sentences like someone who’s trying not to explode.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped.
His jaw clenched. “If this is still about the past—”
“I found a letter,” she said abruptly.
Rowan froze. “What?”
“In an old book. At my cottage. It’s… someone knew about the letters. The ones I never got. Someone knew you wrote them.”
Rowan stared at her. “You think someone intercepted them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It sounds insane, but…”
His expression darkened. “My cousin worked at the dorm mailroom. For a while.”
Eloise’s eyes widened. “You think Alex—?”
“He hated me dating you. Thought it was a distraction from the family business. Always said I was wasting time with writing.”
They stood there, the silence thick with implications.
“Rowan…” she said, voice cracking. “If that’s true—if someone deliberately kept us apart—”
He stepped closer, eyes burning. “Then we lost a decade we didn’t have to.”
Eloise looked away.
“Let me help,” he said. “Let’s figure it out. Together.”
She hesitated. But then nodded.
Because for the first time in ten years, she didn’t feel like she was drowning in what-ifs.
She felt like she was finally beginning to swim toward answers.
The next clue came sooner than either of them expected.
A week later, during a stormy afternoon session, the lights in the bookstore flickered. Power flickered out. People scattered. Eloise and Rowan ducked into the back office to grab emergency lanterns.
That’s when she saw it.
An old, locked drawer in the antique desk beneath the register.
The one she’d seen Rowan avoid opening more than once.
“What's in there?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I don’t know. It was already locked when we bought the store.”
Eloise crouched, fiddled with the drawer’s brass keyhole, and after a few minutes, managed to pop it open with a bobby pin.
Inside: a stack of envelopes.
Her name was on every single one.
Handwritten. Some yellowed. Some newer.
Her hands shook as she pulled them out.
Rowan was silent beside her.
Thirty letters.
All addressed to Eloise Granger.
All from Rowan Hale.
She looked up at him, eyes swimming.
He whispered, “They were here all along.”
- Writer
