CHAPTER 3 — *“The Way He Keeps Promises”

*We Never Said Goodbye*

Mark woke up to the sound of soft rain tapping against his window again, as if the sky was picking up their conversation from last night. His phone buzzed once—no alarm, just a message.

**Aria 🧃:**

"Waiting on that tragic, pretentious quote. Don't let me down, poet boy."

He blinked once, then smiled and reached for the phone, still face down on the desk from last night. Typing without thinking too hard:

**Mark:**

"If you ever feel forgotten, remember even the moon loses pieces of itself and still finds its way back to whole."

**Aria 🧃:**

"Ugh."

"Why are you like this."

>"It's TOO GOOD. I rolled my eyes *and* bookmarked it in my mind."

>"10/10. No notes."

**Mark:**

"Good. You can scribble that in glitter pen too."

**Aria 🧃:**

"Already imagined it. Purple glitter."

**Mark:**

"Classy."

He slid out of bed and stretched. The usual ache in his shoulders settled in from a night spent more inside his head than asleep. But he didn't mind it.

He made coffee—not because he needed the caffeine, but because the smell made mornings feel softer. Steam curled like smoke signals into the air.

There was something steady about routines. Something sacred.

**Liam called.**

Mark picked up on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"Dude, are you alive?" Liam's voice crackled through.

"Technically."

"You never answered last night after you got home. I figured you fell into a poetry coma."

Mark grinned. "Close. Talked to Aria for a bit."

"Ohhhh. Makes sense. That girl's got more chaotic energy than my little cousin on sugar."

"She's harmless," Mark said, taking a slow sip of coffee. "Just real. I like that."

"You like people who don't fake their smiles. Yeah, yeah, I know the monologue by heart." Liam yawned. "Anyway. We still on for bookstore run today?"

"Always."

An hour later, Mark walked into the dusty used bookstore tucked between a closed tailor shop and a tea stall no one ever seemed to visit. The bell chimed as he entered. Familiar. Quiet.

He spent an absurd amount of time flipping through old novels with cracked spines and forgotten notes scribbled in margins. That's what he loved most—stories that had already been loved by someone else. Ghosts of readers he'd never meet.

By the time Liam found him again, Mark had a stack of four books in his arms.

"You realize you already own two of those, right?" Liam asked.

Mark held up a copy. "Different edition."

"God, you're exhausting."

Back home, Mark sat on the floor, books scattered like islands around him. He flipped one open, found a name scrawled on the inside of the cover: *"To someone who needed to feel understood."*

He traced it with his thumb, then grabbed his phone and messaged Aria again.

**Mark:**

"Do you write in your books?"

**Aria 🧃:**

"Sometimes. Depends on the book."

"Why?"

**Mark:**

"Found a message inside one today. It said, 'To someone who needed to feel understood.' Felt weirdly personal."

**Aria 🧃:**

"That's beautiful."

**Mark:**

"Yeah. Guess that's why I bought it."

**Aria 🧃:**

"Do you ever think about leaving messages in books you give away?"

**Mark:**

"All the time. But I've never done it."

**Aria 🧃:**

"Why not?"

**Mark:**

> "Feels like a promise. I don't make those unless I mean them."

**Aria 🧃:**

"Okay, that hit a little too deep for a Monday."

**Mark:**

"Sorry."

**Aria 🧃:**

"No, don't be. I like it. You're the kind of person who means things. That's rare."

He stared at her last message. Read it twice.

He wasn't the kind of guy who gave pieces of himself easily. But when he did, they were carved—not scribbled. Permanent.

And that, more than anything, shaped who Mark Rivers was.