A Pack of Light

THE GIFT HE DIDN'T UNDERSTAND

Episode 8: Permission and Power

The library was quieter than usual, its usual hum of whispered study and rustling pages dampened by the heavy noon air. Isabelle sat by the farthest corner, trying to disappear behind a borrowed psychology book, her highlighter moving in steady strokes though her eyes barely followed the words. Being here felt surreal. It used to be her safe place. Now, even silence echoed too loud.

Then came the voice she’d hoped to avoid.

"Hey," Marco greeted softly.

Isabelle looked up, her face unreadable. Her posture didn't change.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked, already pulling the chair opposite her.

She gave a barely perceptible nod.

He sat down, cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say sorry—for how I acted at the party. That wasn’t fair to you. I just… I really care about you, Isabelle. And seeing you laugh with someone else—God, I lost it."

Isabelle closed her book slowly. "You mean when I laughed at Jordan’s joke? The one about the professor’s crooked tie?"

Marco looked cornered. "Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t just that. It was everything. You being distant. Cold. I didn’t know how to read you anymore."

"Then don’t," she replied flatly. "You don’t have to read me, Marco. You’re not entitled to me, or my moods, or how I react."

"I know that." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I’m just trying to explain. I care, alright? Maybe too much. Jealousy isn’t easy to manage when you—when you have feelings."

She looked him in the eye, her voice calm but edged. "Then manage it. Because I didn’t sign up to carry your feelings for you."

There was a beat of tense silence.

"Okay," he sighed. "You’re right. I messed up. I was just hoping we could start over."

She didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes drifted toward the window. Students passed outside in bursts of color and life. It felt like watching another world.

"How have you been, really?" Marco asked, quieter now. "Since... you know. The hospital and all."

She looked back at him, startled by the question. No one asked that—not like that. Not directly. She considered lying, but her body was tired of pretending.

"Strange," she admitted. "Everything feels unfamiliar. Even breathing. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if I’m really here. Like... the world went on without me and now I’m trying to catch up in shoes that don’t fit."

Marco nodded solemnly, his expression softening. "I get that. Must be overwhelming."

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t used to being vulnerable with him. Or with anyone except Leah.

Then he reached into his bag.

"I got you something. Just thought you might like it."

He handed her a small paper bag. Inside, folded with care, was a soft beige bonnet. For a second, she just stared at it. A wave of memory crashed into her without warning—the feel of clumps of her hair falling into the sink, the horror of her reflection, the shame of showing up to class hiding her illness under layers of fabric and forced smiles.

Her hands trembled slightly.

"You used to wear one all the time," Marco said, smiling. "Figured you might want something new to match the new semester."

She looked at the bonnet in her hands. It was beautiful. Thoughtful. But it stung.

"Thank you," she said softly, trying to push the ache back. "It’s... nice."

He waited, watching her. Expecting something more. A smile, maybe. A spark. Anything.

But Isabelle merely folded the bonnet and placed it back in the bag. Her face remained composed, but her silence spoke volumes.

Marco’s face twitched with disappointment. "I don’t get it. I try, Isabelle. I really do. But you never show it—you never act like it matters."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying my thank you wasn’t enough?"

He leaned forward, frustrated. "I’m saying it feels like you don’t value what I give you. Or me."

She stood, calmly but firmly. "I never asked for the gift, Marco. You chose to give it. That doesn’t come with a required performance of gratitude."

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

"I’m not obligated to jump in the air or beam like a Christmas tree because you handed me something wrapped in sentiment. If you’re doing this for applause, you’re doing it for the wrong reasons."

Her voice never rose, but it sliced clean.

Marco’s jaw tensed. "I didn’t mean it like that."

"But you did. And now you’re angry because I didn’t respond the way you imagined. That’s not on me."

She gathered her things quietly.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Away from this conversation."

She walked out of the library, her steps even, heart pounding. The gift still sat in the bag, heavier than it looked. Behind her, Marco remained seated, staring at the empty chair.

Outside, the wind tugged at Isabelle’s scarf. She tightened it around her neck and kept walking. There was no script for this version of herself. No roadmap. But she was writing one, step by step.

And in that chapter, permission came from within—not from those who only saw what they wanted her to be.