His version of love

Chapter 8: The first lesson

Iris’s POV

Eric stepped aside and held the door open.

“Come in” His office was nothing like I expected. I imagined something grand, with expensive furniture and shelves filled with books that looked too valuable to touch. Something that matched the image I slowly built of Eric in my head. Instead, books were everywhere. Some were arranged neatly on shelves, others were stacked on the floor beside the desk, piled on window ledges and scattered across a small table in the corner. A few had bookmarks sticking out of them, while others were covered in folded pages and handwritten notes. A coffee mug sat beside an open notebook. There was something strangely comforting about it. The room didn’t feel like an office, it felt like someone actually lived inside his mind here. A large window overlooked the gardens behind the foundation, the rain from earlier had left the glass slightly fogged around the edges.

“You look disappointed”

“I’m not”

“You were expecting something more dramatic”

“I was expecting less… mess.” He laughed and said

“I’m a writer. This is considered organized”

“I’m slightly concerned”

“Don’t be”

I smiled and stepped farther inside. There was something different about being alone with him here. At the foundation there were always other people nearby. Students passing through the corridors or just staff members moving from one room to another. Here there was only silence, just us. The walls were lined with photographs of authors, literary festivals, and black and white portraits of people I didn’t recognize. One frame caught my attention. a younger Eric stood beside Gabriel Ponsah.

“you’ve known Gabriel for a long time “ Eric glanced at the photograph

“ long enough that he still thinks he can tell me what to do”

“Can he”

“Sometimes”

He closed the door gently behind me. The click of the lock sounded louder than it should have.

“Take a seat ” I sat in the chair across from his desk. Eric sat opposite me and opened a notebook.

“So”

“So?”

“ this is the part you ask me what the mentorship is supposed to be”

“I was trying to be polite”

“don’t”

“don’t be polite?”

“not here” he leaned back

“the purpose of this program isn’t to impress me”

“that’s good because I’m failing already”

“the purpose is to make you a better writer” I nodded

“and the fastest way to do that is honesty” he paused

“What are you afraid of as a writer?” The question came too quickly.

“I am afraid that nothing I write would matter”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, walked to one of the shelves and pulled out a thin book bound with a black clip.

“this was manuscript” I looked at it

“You're showing me this?”

“yes”

“Why?”

“Because it’s terrible” I laughed.

“I’m serious” he opened it

“I wrote this when I was nineteen” I read the first paragraph. It wasn’t terrible. It was awkward, dramatic, trying too hard to sound important. But underneath it, there was something honest.

“you’re lying”

“it’s felt terrible when I wrote it” he took the manuscript back

“I spent years trying to sound like the writers I had admired”

“and then?”

“and then I realize the world already had them” he looked at after saying that

“It didn’t have me” The sentence stayed with me.

“that sounds simple”

“It isn’t” he walked towards the window

“most young writers ask the wrong question”

“What's the wrong question?”

“is this good?” he turned towards me.

“the better question is, is this true?” I thought about that for a second

“what if the truth is boring?”

He smiled and said

“It rarely is” he returned to his desk

“bring me something next week”

“I told you I don’t have anything”

“I know”

“Then what do I bring?”

“A page”

“A page of what?”

“Anything” he shrugged

“A memory, a conversation, a lie, a sentence that refuses to leave you alone. You have to care enough for this to work.”

“I care”

“Good” he smiled

“that means you are already writing”

I laughed quietly, for some reason I felt less nervous than when I had first entered the room. Eric had a way of making difficult things sound possible. My eyes wandered towards the shelves. Almost every book was covered in handwritten notes.

“you annotate everything?”

“I do”

“that would give librarians nightmares”

“I’m willing to make that sacrifice” I laughed. He pulled a worn out novel from another shelf and handed it to me.

“this one, changed my life when I was your age” The cover was faded from being opened too many times.

“What was so special about it?”

“I read it at the wrong time”

“the wrong time?”

“I was convinced I was going to become a different person”

“And did you?”

“not immediately” he smiled faintly

“But it made me pay attention to the person I already was” I ran my thumb across the edge of the book.

“that sounds impossible”

“it sounds impossible until it happens” he leaned against the desk

“tell me something no one knows about you”

“that’s an unfair question”

“I know”

I thought for a moment, there were hundreds of things I could have said small things, embarrassing things about my childhood, things about my writing. Instead, I found myself telling him something I hadn’t thought about in years.

“when I was younger, I used to write letters to people I had never met”

“why?”

“I liked the idea that somewhere in the world there was someone who would understand me before we ever met” Eric was silenced for a moment

“Did you keep the letters?”

“most of them”

“I would like to read one someday” I laughed after he said that

“you are asking for dangerous things”

“I’m a writer”

“that’s not a good excuse”

“that’s the only one I have”

I smiled. The conversation drifted after that. We talked about books, London, libraries, and why rainy cities seem to produce too many poets. He asked about the first book I remembered loving. I told him about the books I used to hide under my pillow when I was supposed to be sleeping. He laughed when I admitted I had once stayed awake until three in the morning just to finish a novel for before school. I asked him whether he had always wanted to write. He answered just enough to make me curious but not enough to satisfy me. He never seemed to give everything away. There was another layer. Another part of himself just beyond reach. And strangely, I wanted to reach it. I looked at the clock. It was later than I expected. I gathered my book and stood.

“thank you”

“for what?”

“for not treating me like a child”

“you are not a child”

something about you the way he said it made me pause. I nodded and looked away. Eric walked me towards the door. Then just before I reached it, he spoke.

“Wait” I turned around. He was looking at me differently now, not like a mentor looking at his student. At least it didn’t feel that way.

“ tell me something else”

“ what?”

“ something you’ve never told anyone”

“ this is in fair”

“ I know”

The room suddenly felt smaller. The rain tapped softly against the windows. I look down at my hands. There were hundreds of things I could’ve said. Eric leaned forward slightly. I stared at him and for the first time that evening I had no answer and I couldn’t explain why the question frightened me