003 Have We Met Before?

Stace's POV

"I'll go ahead upstairs, Stace. Your crowd's getting more excited," Alex tells me, pointing toward the stairs.

"Thanks, Alex. This means so much to me." I smile and nod. "I'll just fix our table a bit, then I'll follow."

I smooth my hair and spray a bit of dry shampoo. Vanity isn't what I need right now, but somehow it creeps in. I take a deep breath and grab my things before heading upstairs.

Just as I turn the corner at the top of the staircase, I nearly collide with someone—tall, lean, sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms, and that scent: musk, cedarwood, espresso—something warm and light. It hits me like a familiar song I can't quite place. Like a melody my heart has always known.

Some of my readers—at least, I assume they are—meet my gaze and wave excitedly. Their hands soothe my restless mind. I offer a practiced, natural-looking smile. I think it works.

The man I almost bumped into—Chad, according to his nameplate—is adjusting the mic stand by the small stage. His movements are fluid, quietly confident. Our eyes meet briefly. I hope he didn't notice how mine widened for a moment, or how my heart skipped a beat. But his gaze is steady, curious even.

An angel must've passed by, because something at that moment stretched—just a second too long to feel casual.

"You alright?" he asks, voice low and calm. It settles in my chest, warming something inside me I didn't know had grown cold. I clear my throat.

I nod. "Yeah. Just… re-centering."

A smile flickers across his face—barely there, but enough to make me wonder if he smiles like that often. "This your crowd? Didn't expect a turnout this big. No offense, but you're the first author to fill this place up."

I laugh politely. Shyness presses its weight, so I brush invisible dust from my pants, trying to shift my focus. "Neither did I. First time for me too… facing my readers, I mean."

He smiles again, this time with his eyes. There's something about the way the fine lines at their corners frame his expression—like parentheses holding stories he's never said aloud.

"You have something in your hair," he says. Before I can react, he gently tucks the strand behind my ear. My heart sinks—not with fear, but with recognition. It's a moment that never happened, yet my heart remembers it like muscle memory.

Too familiar. Like dream-logic quietly bleeding into reality.

He taps the mic. "You're all set now," he says with a smile.

I nod, swallowing the weight in my chest. It lingers—quiet and aching, like a bruise you forget until someone touches it again.

The screen flickers back to life. I begin reading the final lines from Sometimes Online, barely recognizing the version of myself who wrote them.

"I know I don't miss you…" I begin, eyes scanning the crowd, trying not to shatter the soft intimacy that's filled the café.

I'm not just reading—I'm reciting from somewhere deeper. A place that once burned and never quite cooled. My whole being knows this passage; I etched it in longing, in the bittersweet sting of wanting too much from someone who gave too little. Or none at all.

I feel like I'm 22 again—freshly wounded but somehow brave enough to walk through every circle of hell just to feel that kind of yearning again.

Tears gather. Normally, I'd fight them. But tonight, I surrender. There's no shame here—only the quiet invitation of vulnerability. And I accept it.

"I know I don't miss you, but I can't keep on denying I don't…"

I hadn't realized I was holding my breath. I exhale—slow and soft—mirroring how his misguided affection had taken away my spine to stand up for myself.

With eyes closed, I place the printed excerpt on my lap. My right hand comes to rest where my scarred heart beats.

"Because when I say I know, it's my mind telling me not to… when my heart tells me so."

I look up, nervousness hovering over my shoulders. My eyes wander, steadying my mind to face the weight of my voice—not through written words, but through sound. All eyes are on me.

Some filled with anguish from feeling exposed through another's pain; others brimming with bittersweet remembrance.

Call me a sadist and despise me for saying this, but I'm glad my story was felt. It was—and is—experienced by them. My words are no longer just mine; they've become theirs too.

Theirs to own, to feel, to curse pain with.

I breathe through my nose and smile politely. "That was a heartfelt reading, wasn't it?" My chest continues to pound.

A quiet roar of chuckles fills the room. Comforting, after baring our souls.

I hadn't realized I was still holding that breath. When I finally exhale, it feels like something inside me exhales too.

Not the kind of sigh that means I'm okay now—but the kind that means I'm starting to be… through the courage change offers.

I fold the paper with care—not reverence. It served its purpose. It bled what I couldn't say aloud. And I'm glad it still resonates with those who encountered it.

As I let my eyes wander, preparing for the Q&A, someone in the back—soft eyes and a warm smile—nods. Like they know.

I'm pretty sure they can see how my wounded heart still beats, bruises and all.

Maybe love doesn't always ask to be returned.

But maybe, sometimes, it finds its way back… in a room full of strangers, listening.

Amid soft claps, I find my voice. "Anyone want to start the Q&A?"

Most of the crowd raises their hands timidly. A woman with bloodshot eyes stands slowly. She clutches a printed copy of my novel and wipes her nose with the other hand, stifling sobs.

I nod at her to speak.

"Hi, uh…" she smiles nervously, hesitating.

I smile gently. "Please, call me Stace. That's my nickname—my real one. My username's a bit much," I chuckle. "What's your name?"

"Hi, Stace. I'm Connie. Nice to finally know and see you," she replies with steadier breath. "I just want to know… was this based on real life? If not, what inspired you to hurt us this way?"

Laughter breaks the weight. I join them, heartily—something I haven't done in months.

"To tell you the truth, Connie… you can sit now," I say. Yeah. Sometimes Online is my homage to the what-could've-beens of online flings and friendships. I've always been fascinated by meeting strangers online and knowing their stories."

"So, who inspired who? Earl's my favorite—even if he's not much of a risker like Carmen," someone calls out.

I can't spot her, but I smile. "Most of the guys Carmen interacted with were parallels of guys who let me down… not new, right?"

"Even Earl?" another voice asks.

"Yes, even Earl. Want an update on him?"

The crowd squeals and nods.

"A month before finishing the novel, I was writing the last three chapters… Earl and I talked. It was brief. I ghosted him," my voice shakes. I clear my throat.

I gesture to the crowd that they could start a queue for the book signing. I took out my pens and started on my promise for them. I carefully placed my pen and markers on the table provided, letting them choose what color of marker I should sign their book with.

They thank me for writing Sometimes Online. They don't know they're the reason why I didn't give up on that novel. These people deserve to read a personal note from me; not because I'm someone, but I want them to feel seen. Just like how they made me feel.

"Thank you for being so patient with me," I tell one of them while I look at them. "I do my best to express my gratitude for this warm welcome," I explain.

"Why did you hide from the public? You're beautiful, especially your eyes," one of them asks me. She whispers her name. Sol. I drew a small sun near my signature. That made her smile.

"Thank you, Sol," I smiled at her. "I want people to focus on my stories, not on how I look. Not everyone is nice."

I could feel my carpal tunnel cussing the life out of me. But I never expected this much enjoyment. My eyes wandered a bit to find Alex, who was taking pictures on her phone and film camera. She waves at me and gives me a hearty thumbs up.

Murmurs of appreciation fill my eyes. A ball of warmth and sunshine rests on my chest. With ears ringing, my train of thoughts was halted by a question.

"But why?" someone asks.

I recognize the voice. It's Chad.

His eyes are fixed on mine. "Why did you do it? He was ready."

I feel his tone—curious but edged with something else. Something deeper.

My hands stopped from signing and shaking hands with my readers. I grabbed the microphone, giving a signal to the readers to make way so I could look at him.

"The sequel could answer that," I reply, breaking our eye contact and turning to the crowd instead.