Our Beautiful Lie

Chapter Three

~Aurora~

Books had always been my sanctuary. Inside their pages, I could be anyone, live anywhere, feel anything. They swallowed my fears and replaced them with new worlds, new voices. In stories, I wasn’t invisible.

Maybe that was why I took the job at the bookstore. Not for the money—it didn’t pay much anyway—but for the comfort. The quiet. The safety.

And, of course, for Mrs. Garcia.

She was the only person who ever truly saw me. She didn’t look through me the way my classmates did, and she didn’t dismiss me the way my parents did. She noticed me. She smiled at me. She cared.

I hadn’t forgotten the day I met her. It was Thanksgiving. My parents and brother had gone out to celebrate without me—forgotten me again. I’d prepared a small gift for my brother, wrapped it myself, but they’d left without saying a word. That day I sat outside the closed bookstore, hugging my knees to my chest, sobbing quietly into the sleeves of my jacket.

And then she came. A woman with soft eyes and graying hair, carrying the scent of sugar and cinnamon. She sat beside me, pressed a cookie into my palm, and handed me a book. My first novel. That moment, that kindness, lit something inside me.

Since then, the bookstore had been my second home.

The soft ding of the doorbell snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up from the counter where I sat curled in a chair, my nose buried in a book.

“Welcome,” I murmured automatically.

The girl who entered didn’t answer. She was younger than me, maybe fourteen, her earbuds in, her steps quick as she headed for the fiction shelves. I returned to my book, the hum of quiet filling the shop again.

A few minutes later, she came back with two books clutched to her chest—Looking for Alaska and Let It Snow.

I blinked. John Green.

Her eyes fell to the book in my hands, and they lit up. “Will Grayson, Will Grayson!”

My heart stuttered.

“You’re a John Green fan too?” she asked, her smile wide, genuine.

I froze. My grip on the book tightened as I instinctively ducked my head, shielding my eyes. She mustn’t look into them. She mustn’t see.

“Uhm—no,” I lied quickly. “This is actually my first one.”

Her smile faltered for the briefest second, but then she recovered. “Oh, well, you’ll love it. He’s my favorite author. I’ve read everything of his. Looking for Alaska is really good—you should read that next.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. Words caught in my chest, tangled with the panic that always came whenever anyone tried to talk to me.

“That’s… great,” I finally managed, my voice small.

Her smile thinned. I caught the faintest sound—a scoff, maybe disappointment. Clutching her books, she turned and walked away.

The sting of failure burned hot in my chest.

Great job, Aurora. Another person convinced you’re rude, or weird, or both.

I buried my face back into my book, though the words swam before my eyes.

The day passed in small waves of silence. A few customers trickled in and out, but nothing like the weekend rush. Saturdays and Sundays, I wore sunglasses to hide my pale eyes from curious stares. Mrs. Garcia always told me they were beautiful, crystalline, rare. But she was wrong. I’d seen the way people looked at me. Once, a stranger in a grocery store had stopped mid-step, wrinkling her nose at me like I was some kind of freak. I never forgot that.

The bell chimed again, and this time, it wasn’t a customer.

“Hey, dear,” Mrs. Garcia greeted, her voice warm as melted honey.

I looked up with a smile, closing my book. “Hi, Mrs. Garcia.”

She set her bag on the desk and lowered herself into the chair beside mine with a soft sigh. Her presence always seemed to fill the little bookstore with an extra layer of comfort.

“How was school today?” she asked.

My mind flickered back to first period, to the trio walking in, to Finn asking for a pencil, to Easton’s golden eyes staring through me. My chest tightened.

“Dear?” she prompted, noticing my silence.

I shook my head. “Same old, same old,” I said quickly.

She frowned. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” I lied again. It wasn’t like she needed to know. What had happened didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a big deal. They’d probably already forgotten I existed.

Before she could press further, a sweet scent reached my nose—warm, chocolatey, mouthwatering. I turned, eyes widening.

Mrs. Garcia chuckled at my expression. “I was going to give you some.” She pulled a small box from her bag and slid it across the counter. “Chocolate muffins. Fresh from the oven.”

My stomach growled in response, betraying me.

“You’re the best, Mrs. Garcia,” I said, opening the box eagerly.

Her laugh was soft, kind. “I know I am.”

The muffins were delicious, of course. Everything she baked was. Sometimes I wondered why she hadn’t opened a bakery instead of a bookstore. She always said it was because of her husband—that a bookstore had been his dream. When he passed away, she opened one in his memory.

Her love for him was the kind I had only ever read about. The kind that made me ache with longing.

“You should head home, sweetheart,” she said as I reached for another muffin.

“It’s not that late,” I protested lightly.

She raised her brows. “Of course it is. Time flies when you’re lost in a story.”

I glanced at the clock and felt my cheeks warm. She was right—it was past closing. I’d been so deep in my book I hadn’t noticed. And the book really was good. Maybe that girl had been right about John Green after all.

I packed my things, but not before heading to the shelves to find Looking for Alaska. My fingers trailed over the spines until I found it, sliding the copy out with a small smile.

“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Garcia. And thanks for the treat.”

“No need to thank me, dear. You know you’re the only one who actually eats my baking,” she teased. Her brown eyes softened, though, when she added, “Have a good night.”

I stepped out into the cool evening air. The street was quiet, lit by the soft glow of street lamps. My book hugged tight to my chest, a small smile tugging at my lips.

I might not have friends. My parents might not notice me. My brother might not care.

But someone did.

And for now, that was enough.

Still, as I walked home, the smile wavered. A quiet ache spread through me.

Because deep down, I still wished. I wished for more. For laughter with friends. For parents who looked at me like I mattered. For love that didn’t vanish like smoke.

I wished for everything I didn’t have.

And the worst part? I knew—deep down—that wishing didn’t change anything.

So all I could do was dream. And hope.