Morning in Amsterdam arrived without a sound.
Nothing had changed outside, but Blair woke up feeling different.
Not restless, not happy.
More like a quiet awareness that something in her life was shifting, slowly but undeniably.
She sat on the edge of the bed, looking toward the window.
Kattie was still asleep, her back facing Blair, her breathing steady.
Blair picked up her phone, instinctively unlocking the screen.
No new messages.
She put the phone back down, like someone deliberately holding herself back from expectations that were growing too fast.
On campus, the day went on as usual.
Too usual.
Blair sat in class, taking notes without fully realizing it, her thoughts drifting to things that weren’t written on the board.
More than once, she caught herself glancing toward the door, as if expecting someone to walk in late.
Pablo didn’t show up.
“Who are you looking for?” Kattie whispered.
“No one,” Blair answered quickly.
But Kattie knew.
She always did.
That afternoon, Blair went to Brunne’s bookstore.
It wasn’t Sunday, but Brunne didn’t mind.
Blair sat behind the counter, sorting old books that smelled like time itself.
Brunne appeared from behind a shelf, holding a book with a faded brown cover.
“This just came in,” he said.
“An old novel.
About loss.”
Blair took the book.
“Why do you think I need to read this?”
Brunne looked at her for a moment.
“You’re the type who keeps too many things to herself.”
Blair smiled faintly.
“That sounds like an accusation.”
“More like an observation.”
Inside, there was a small handwritten note, the ink already fading.
Someone’s name.
Incomplete.
Just one word, as if cut off.
“Who owned it?” Blair asked.
“I don’t know,” Brunne answered honestly.
“Old books often arrive without their full stories.”
Blair nodded and closed the book slowly.
There was a strange feeling in her chest, like recognizing something without knowing why.
As she stepped out of the shop, her phone vibrated.
Pablo.
Where are you?
Blair stopped walking.
She typed, then deleted it.
Typed again.
At the bookstore.
The reply came quickly.
Can we meet?
No emojis.
No small talk.
They met on a wooden bench by the canal.
Pablo looked quieter than usual.
His eyes were slightly hollow, like he hadn’t slept enough.
“What’s wrong?” Blair finally asked.
Pablo shook his head.
“It’s nothing.”
Blair didn’t push.
She had learned that some people needed space to speak in their own way.
“Have you ever felt,” Pablo said softly, “like your life looks fine from the outside, but inside it’s a mess?”
Blair looked at the slow-moving water in the canal.
“Every day.”
Pablo smiled faintly.
“I thought it was just me.”
They sat for a long time without many words.
In that silence, Blair realized something.
He always talked about the present.
About assignments.
About the city.
About neutral things.
About the future, but never in detail.
“Pablo,” Blair said suddenly.
“Hm?”
“Why did you choose architecture?”
Pablo went quiet.
For a long time.
Too long for such a simple question.
“Because,” he said at last, “I once saw something collapse.
And I wanted to understand why.”
Blair turned to him.
“What?”
Pablo didn’t answer.
He stood up, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Sorry.”
No explanation.
No promise to meet again that day.
Blair stayed seated, staring at the empty space beside her.
She didn’t follow him.
She knew there were questions that couldn’t be forced out.
That night, Blair opened the book from Brunne again.
She read slowly.
In the middle of one page, a sentence made her stop.
Some people build walls not to keep others out, but to keep themselves from falling apart.
Blair closed the book.
She remembered Pablo’s expression that afternoon.
The look of someone holding something up all by himself.
And for the first time, Blair asked herself a question she hadn’t dared to before:
was she ready to know someone who might be more fragile than he appeared?