Chapter 3
At 1:45 PM, I stood on the street opposite Urth Caffé. My past-life memories told me this was their meeting spot.
I ended up hiding in an old bookstore across the street. The angle was just right, and the bookshelves provided cover.
I looked through the bookstore's dusty window towards the café entrance. This Urth Caffé was a bit older than I remembered, with some peeling paint, looking like it had seen better days.
Would sister even like this place? I thought instinctively.
At two PM sharp, a familiar figure appeared.
Berenice had arrived. She wore a dress that looked artistic yet "accidentally" revealed a luxury brand logo, carrying a distressed but expensive-looking canvas tote.
She looked like she'd stepped right out of a fashion magazine's "How to Dress Like a Tasteful Artist" column.
Standing at the entrance, as her eyes scanned the surroundings, I clearly saw a flash of disdain she couldn't quite hide.
But immediately, it was replaced by an exaggerated, curiously appraising expression, the smile on her lips seeming measured with a ruler.
I could tell she was diligently executing her predetermined script.
A few minutes later, a man walked out of the café and headed straight for her.
My breath hitched.
It was Adrian. Even across a street and through a layer of glass, I could sense his aura.
He wore simple jeans and a T-shirt, indeed not looking wealthy, but his walk was composed, his shoulders open. The way he slightly inclined his head when speaking exuded an indescribable elegance and confidence—something no down-and-out person would possess.
My heart beat fast and heavy, pounding against my ribs.
Was this person... really the one who chatted with me online about art and dreams, who made me feel my soul was understood? The real JustDreaming_LA?
I saw Berenice immediately flash the overly bright, rehearsed-a-million-times smile. Her performance had officially begun.
I should leave. The play had started, and I, the audience member, shouldn't exist.
But my feet seemed nailed to the spot, immovable. I was imprisoned there by a mix of pain, guilt, and a terrible curiosity, forced to watch this cruel performance.
I saw them enter the café and sit by the window. From this distance, I could vaguely see their interaction but couldn't hear the specifics.
Berenice took out her phone and enthusiastically showed it to him. I guessed it was probably the crash-course "art portfolio highlights" or "photos from recent exhibitions" she'd prepared.
Adrian took the phone, looked down at it, his eyebrows seeming to move almost imperceptibly. His expression was subtle, almost... confused? But he quickly regained a polite demeanor and nodded.
Then they started talking. I couldn't see Berenice's full expression, but from her overly frequent gestures and slightly rigid posture, I could tell she was nervous, desperately drawing on the "key points" from her memory bank.
Suddenly, a wave of intense anger and shame washed over me.
Not directed at Berenice, but at myself. Why was I hiding here? Why was I watching the most precious memory and emotion of my heart being tarnished by this calculated, hypocritical farce?
I remembered my first meeting with Adrian in my past life.
I was going for Berenice then, full of anxiety and guilt, unsure how to face her online crush. We ended up talking about Van Gogh's Starry Night. I told him what I saw wasn't a gorgeous starry sky, but the cry of a lonely soul in the abyss. We discussed The Shawshank Redemption. I said what moved me most wasn't Andy's intelligence, but his unwavering hold on hope even in desperate circumstances.
Those were my most genuine thoughts and feelings in that moment. But those conversations... those soul connections... they should have belonged to Berenice.
No! This thought was too dangerous! I pinched myself hard. Those conversations and feelings never belonged to the Berenice who dismissed Adrian as a "poor screenwriter"! I stole them!
This realization was like a bucket of cold water, sobering me up instantly. I was a thief. I had no right to judge here.
Just then, a bookstore clerk carrying a thick stack of books passed by me. The heavy art book on top suddenly slipped and fell to the ground with a loud "thud," the kicked-up dust making me cough and instinctively step back.
When I looked up again, my heart almost stopped.
Adrian inside the café had, for some reason, turned his head. His gaze crossed the street, looking towards the bookstore.
Our eyes met briefly across the noisy street, through the bookstore's dirty window.
In that instant, I felt all sound around me vanish.
His expression was strange, filled with a pure inquiry, a kind of... more than just curiosity. It was more like a sudden perplexity, as if he had seen something unexpected yet strangely familiar?
Impossible! He couldn't possibly know me! Absolutely impossible!
Panic seized me. I turned around as if scalded, my heart racing wildly, almost jumping out of my throat. I buried myself deep among the tall bookshelves in the back of the store, not daring to look out again.
I had to leave immediately. Before he recognized me, this audience member who shouldn't exist.
At 7 PM, my phone screen lit up.
A photo from Berenice: a selfie of her and Adrian, looking very close. She was smiling brilliantly, holding tightly onto his arm. Adrian was also smiling, looking polite, but for some reason, the smile seemed courteous to my eyes, even... carrying a hint of barely perceptible detachment?
[Candice! The meeting went pretty well! He's quite the gentleman. We talked a lot about art topics!]
I stared at the photo and the message on my phone screen for a full ten minutes.
They were together. Berenice looked happy.
This was enough. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? This was my atonement.
"You got Berenice the 'opportunity' she wanted. This is the 'correct' path..." I repeated to my reflection in the bathroom mirror, but the eyes staring back were filled with confusion and a hypocrisy I couldn't even convince myself of.
Why did that moment in the café, that inquiring, confused gaze across the window, still linger in my mind?
What was he looking at?
He... couldn't possibly have recognized me.
I shook my head vigorously, as if to dispel these dangerous thoughts, then forced myself to sit back down in front of my drawing board and pick up my brush.
I had to focus on drawing. I had to only think about my own things.
I couldn't think about it anymore.