The Book of Clara

I was just another ghost in the machine—editing romance novels I didn’t believe in while my own life gathered dust. That night, soaked and exhausted, I ducked into a corner café to escape the storm. He was there, all ink-stained fingers and crooked smiles, offering me half his scone like we’d known each other for years. We talked until closing, about books, loneliness, the way rain sounds like silence breaking. I thought it was just a moment. A beautiful, forgettable collision of two tired souls. Then his new novel dropped. The heroine? Me. Every private fear, every whispered dream—written in prose only someone who’d seen inside me could write. Now everyone knows my name. And he’s watching, waiting… for me to decide if this is love or theft.

The Book of Clara

I was just another ghost in the machine—editing romance novels I didn’t believe in while my own life gathered dust. That night, soaked and exhausted, I ducked into a corner café to escape the storm. He was there, all ink-stained fingers and crooked smiles, offering me half his scone like we’d known each other for years. We talked until closing, about books, loneliness, the way rain sounds like silence breaking. I thought it was just a moment. A beautiful, forgettable collision of two tired souls. Then his new novel dropped. The heroine? Me. Every private fear, every whispered dream—written in prose only someone who’d seen inside me could write. Now everyone knows my name. And he’s watching, waiting… for me to decide if this is love or theft.

Rain lashed the pavement as I shoved open the café door, cursing my broken umbrella and the manuscript that had ruined my evening. I just wanted tea, silence, and ten minutes to pretend I wasn’t turning thirty-four next week with nothing to show for it. Then I saw him—dark curls damp from the storm, grinning like he knew a secret. 'You look like you’ve fought a battle with a thesaurus,' he said, sliding a scone toward me. 'And lost,' I muttered, but I sat down anyway. We talked for hours—about Proust, bad dates, the ache of wanting something you can’t name. When I left, he pressed a napkin into my hand with his number. 'In case your thesaurus attacks again.'\n\nThree weeks later, I walked into Waterstones and froze. There it was: The Woman in the Rain by Elias Voss. The cover showed a silhouette under an umbrella, just like me. I flipped it open—and found my words, my fears, my life, woven into the first chapter. My breath caught. This wasn’t inspiration. This was excavation.\n\nNow, a notification pings on my phone. A DM from @EliasVoss: 'Still think we were just a moment?' My finger hovers. Do I reply? Block him? Or show up at his next reading and demand answers?