in-between the pages

The door opens, I quickly enter the room while removing my shoes so as not to let the cat escape. My friend once told me I didn’t need to worry — that it wouldn’t want to leave a place like this. Still, the habit stuck.

It had been a while since I went to their room to hang out, being just off campus and all. The place almost hadn't changed: many different books stacked unevenly on shelves, arcanic devices blinking softly across the desk half buried under lots of documents and of course the usual cat hair on every piece of fabric. Actually — it was less messy than I remembered. The air smelled faintly of herbal ink, old paper, and something warm and sweet, like spiced fruit or burnt sugar. We could hear soft music coming from a crystal cube on the wall — some instrumental loop with bells and distant hums, like someone had enchanted a lullaby to echo through time.

They were on the floor as always, not even looking up when I came in, too busy sketching patterns that looked suspiciously like acciomantic runes. The glowing ink majestically flowing from their pen with slow elegance across the paper like a feather caught in a gentle wind. Typical of when they are onto something — in their bubble, lost in ink, arcana, and a playlist looping like a whisper in the background.

I take my second year history book from my bag and settle at the desk, shifting the papers on the side. The book opens at the marked chapter, something about post imperial reforms in the Western Provinces, things I have read multiple times over, but they still resist me like snow melting in a hand that is trying to preserve it. The historian's writing is dense — and his handwriting is almost legible enough — and the subject feels far away, like it belongs to another world.

For a moment, my eyes follow the direction of the text, staring at the page without reading any word. The low music, the bruises of the paper and the ticking of the clock — all folding around me like a nice and warm blanket. This room has a strange gravity. It pulls you in, softens time, invites stillness.

I almost forget why I came.

A soft thump and a yawn pulled me back.

The cat, previously lying under the bed, had decided to come back to life in order to fight an invisible monster. Suddenly jumping back and forth across the room, stepping on shelves, then stopped — making sure the ghost didn't see its movements for a second, then went back at it, knocking over a pile of books, launching itself under the desk, popping out on the other side like a summoned projectile and landing dramatically on the floor. I tried to continue reading, putting my finger on the book — as if that would anchor me in history — however, the cat had just decided that my sock was the invisible monster all along and started attacking it fiercely. I looked down at my book, the post-imperial Provinces could wait five minutes.

I gently pushed the cat with my foot, but it grabbed it and got lifted up to about twenty centimetres off the ground. It tried to retaliate with noble fury, launching an aerial attack — and promptly fell on its side with a muted thud. I then folded a loose piece of paper and held it just above its attack range shaking it slowly while gently pinning the cat in place with my foot. It wiggled, twisted, kicked — tried everything. But the paper danced just beyond its reach.

Eventually, I let it fall onto its head. It looked at me. It knew I had won

I went back to pretending to study, but the words had become hard to understand again, as if I had left their meaning at home. Before I could read a single sentence, the cat jumped into my lap without hesitation and started to purr like nothing had happened.

I didn't try to move.

Instead, I listened to purrs melting with the humming melody, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and laid my hand on the cat's back. Letting the atmosphere capture me.

The world could wait.

Back to less shivering skies