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FOLIE À DEUX
When love becomes madness, and madness becomes the only escape.

Sixteen-year-old Lucienna runs not just from her home in Lille, but from the shadows of her past — from bruised skin and broken silences, from the suffocating weight of being unseen. What she doesn’t expect to find is him — Fuite — a boy as strange and haunted as she is, living a life of disappearance.

As the two begin to orbit each other in the silence of library aisles and hidden corners, a fragile routine forms — delicate, dangerous, and intoxicating. But what starts as a flicker of understanding quickly spirals into something obsessive, all-consuming, and irreversible. In each other, they find solace. In each other, they find reflection. And in each other, they find madness.

Folie à Deux — a shared psychosis. A shared love. A shared destruction.

This is not a love story. This is the story of a girl who fell in love with her ghost. And the price she paid for it.

FOLIE À DEUX

The library was my sanctuary - a silent cathedral where the world's noise faded into whispered pages and forgotten dreams. I came here to escape the suffocating weight of home, to breathe between lines of poetry and stories of distant lives.

That day, I was curled in a corner, clutching Lucy Gray by Wordsworth her tale of disappearance haunting every word. I read aloud softly, wishing, aching, to vanish like her, leaving behind only grief and questions.

Suddenly, a voice broke through my solitude: "Oh, so you're a reader... not just a writer."

I turned. There he was Fuite, standing close, eyes curious but gentle. The same man from 18 Rue des Lias, the keeper of my scattered letters.

"So tell me, my dear neighbour, what are you into?" he asked, a faint smile teasing the corners of his lips.

he eyed my book and then me and said "the usual? If that's 'the usual' for you then you must really like Wordsworth or you must miserable."

He chuckled, but there was sadness beneath it. "I've read your letters. They... they speak. I feel it-your pain, your fight."

I froze. How could he? Who was this stranger who saw my wounds laid bare in ink and paper?

"I was once trapped like you," he confessed quietly. "My sister... she suffered. I was the one they loved, while she was left to drown. I carried guilt like a stone in my chest."

His words hung heavy in the air. Finally, someone who understood. Someone whose own demons echoed my own.

We talked - hours slipping away like seconds. Our stories spilled, raw and honest, weaving a fragile bond between two broken hearts.

"So, what's your name?" I asked, needing to anchor this fragile connection.

"Fuite Roux," he said, a hint of irony in his voice.

Like escape? Not even Libre - just... fuite?" ("Fuite" is the french word for "free/escape. "Libre" is a french name which means "freedom".)

laughed softly. "My parents never cared much for names."

That laugh it was the first thing that felt real in a long, long time.

CHAPTER 5