Ch 4- The boy from the wrong page

Running away was hard. Running away while doing Sister Imelda’s endless chores was nearly impossible. But escaping the orphanage for supplies? That was a loophole Nora would exploit until the end of time.

So here they were — Nora and Aine — clutching a list of supplies so boring it could knock a bull unconscious. Flour. Soap. Salt. Potatoes. More potatoes, because why limit suffering. Aine read the list with a dreamy smile anyway, as though each item were a ticket to joy. Nora wanted to frame that optimism for scientific study.

Stepping through the orphanage gates into town always felt like slipping out of a cage — a slightly rusty cage, with bars made of rules and disappointment. Today, the town was bustling: stalls bursting with bread and fabric and fresh fish that smelled like trauma, children chasing each other, merchants calling out prices, and every color imaginable dancing under the sun.

Nora inhaled dramatically.

“Ah yes, freedom. And the scent of poverty.”

Aine bumped her shoulder affectionately. “It’s still nice. Look at all the people.”

Nora did look. But instead of focusing on the crowd, her mind replayed yesterday night: the moonlight, the cursed book, the ridiculous plot where a black-haired best friend gets murdered because apparently fictional authors hate happiness. Even now she could hear herself muttering, That author needs therapy.

Aine tugged her sleeve. “Nora. Nora. Pastries.”

And there they were — rows of golden pastries dripping with sugar and butter, completely illegal levels of happiness for two orphan girls with exactly zero money. Aine stared like she was gazing into heaven. Nora was ninety percent certain she heard a choir.

“We can’t buy pastries,” Nora reminded her gently. “We’re here for flour, soap, and depression.”

“Just looking,” Aine sighed, dramatically leaning closer to the stall.

Nora rolled her eyes indulgently. Aine wasn’t a problem. The problem was Nora herself, who could not stop thinking about the stupid cursed book, and the name Ezra, and how a fictional character was not supposed to live rent-free in her brain.

She shook her head, forcing herself back into reality, and that’s when she felt it — a shift in the air. Tiny. Unexplainable. Like the moment before thunder.

Someone in the crowd stood out.

Not a handsome boy in a dramatic spotlight. Not sparkles. No cheesy romance music from the heavens.

Just… a person who didn’t belong.

Tall. Black hair like spilled ink. Broad shoulders. A sharp jawline. Confident posture. A smirk that suggested he lived in the middle ground between arrogance and amusement. And even here, in a bustling marketplace full of people, he somehow looked… clearer. Like the world around him had slightly dulled to make space for him.

He wasn’t looking at them — he was talking to a seller — but there was something magnetic, unsettling, and undeniable in the way he existed.

Nora froze mid-step.

No. Absolutely not. No way.

She blinked.

He turned.

And their eyes met.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was confusion — pure, sharp confusion — as if he recognized her and didn’t know how or why. Something flickered across his face, quick and unfamiliar, like a memory he didn’t have permission to access.

Nora’s breath caught.

His gaze broke away from her… and moved to Aine.

Aine, who was nose-deep in pastries and humming happily, unaware of the collapse of reality happening two feet away.

The boy’s expression changed. Not dramatically, not sweetly — just softened, then tightened, then softened again. Too many emotions too fast, like his soul panicked, rebooted, and then pretended nothing happened. By the time Nora blinked, his face was unreadable again — a perfect mask.

And then he started walking toward them.

It took Nora about three seconds to register that he was walking toward them — and roughly two and a half of those seconds were dedicated to a silent meltdown.

He wasn’t even brushing people aside or forcing his way through the crowd. No, that would’ve made sense. He just… moved, and people shifted around him like water parting around a stone. Even from a distance, he walked like someone who knew the world didn’t get to say no to him.

Nora swallowed.Great.That’s exactly how the book described him too.

She flicked her gaze to Aine for backup — only to find her best friend still locked in a life-changing conversation with the pastries.

Nora whispered sharply, “Aine.”

Aine hummed. Didn’t look away.

“Aine.”

Aine finally glanced over lazily. “Hmm?”

Nora widened her eyes — the universal signal for “We are all going to die, please become aware.”

Aine blinked at her… and then noticed him approaching.

“Oh. He’s… tall,” she whispered, as if that were the most relevant observation.

He didn’t look away this time. He walked straight, gaze fixed, as if he’d already decided where he was going before his feet even started moving. That same confidence, that infuriating ease. And there was something else too — a flicker of confusion, maybe recognition, buried under the smooth expression.

That alone was enough to make Nora feel sweat prick her back.

But then—

A gust of wind swirled through the market, tugging their clothes and stirring the smell of baked apples and dust. All it really did was make Aine’s hair fly prettily and Nora’s get stuck in her mouth — so, average luck distribution.

Nora spat out a strand of hair, blinked once —

And there it was.

A silk white ribbon sat on top of Aine’s basket of groceries.

Not sliding.Not fluttering.Not dropped from someone’s hand.

Just there.

Aine didn’t even seem to notice it. Nora sure as hell hadn’t seen it appear. And absolutely no one had gotten close enough to put it there.

Her stomach dropped so fast it could’ve gone through the floorboards.

No.This was not happening.This was exactly — exactly — how it happened in the book.

The heroine. The ribbon. The marketplace. The wind.Everything lined up so perfectly it made Nora feel sick.

She tried to breathe normally. She even forced a tiny laugh, an “I’m totally okay and not having a crisis” laugh. Then she subtly pinched Aine’s arm.

“Ow— what?” Aine whispered, rubbing the spot.

Nora didn’t answer. She just pointed — with a stiff finger — at the ribbon.

Aine stared at it for a second, puzzled. “Oh! That’s pretty. Where’d it come from?”

Exactly.Where did it come from.

Nora’s mouth opened — nothing came out. Her brain, usually full of sharp sarcasm and dramatic worst-case-scenario daydreams, had apparently decided to abandon her at the scene of the crime.

In the book, this scene meant one thing:the heroine had officially caught the male lead’s attention.The romance had begun.The tragedy had been set.

He was only a few steps away now.

Aine instinctively reached for the ribbon, smiling gently the way she always did with pretty, harmless things.

“No.” Nora slapped her hand away.To anyone else, it probably looked like a normal playful moment between friends.But Aine stared at her, startled. “What now?”

Nora leaned in, voice low and sharp.

“Don’t pick up strange ribbons that appear from thin air.”

Aine frowned. “Why?”

“Because it fell from thin air, that’s why.”

Aine blinked. “It looks nice…”

“Nice means cursed in this universe,” Nora muttered under her breath.

And finally he stopped in front of them.

Up close, it was somehow worse.He was unfairly tall, unfairly handsome, unfairly composed. His dark hair fell in a way that was definitely intentional while pretending not to be. His eyes — grey, sharp — flicked between them as if trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.

He stopped, hesitated for half a heartbeat — like his mind ran two contradictory scripts — and then settled into a controlled smile as if deciding on an identity.

A small, polite curve touched his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something more… aware.

“Excuse me,” Ezra said, voice smooth enough to be illegal in some countries. “I believe something of yours fell.”

He pointed — with that calm confidence — to the ribbon.

Nora almost choked.Aine looked pleasantly bewildered.The world, apparently, had chosen violence.

“We didn’t drop anything,” Nora said, a little too fast.

Ezra arched one eyebrow — not dramatically, just enough to make it clear he noticed.

“I saw it fall,” he said.

No you did not, Nora wanted to scream.You were ten meters away discussing pears.You didn’t touch anything, you didn’t move near us —and somehow the ribbon is still here.

Aine, sweet diplomatic Aine, gave a tiny apologetic smile.

“Oh — if you saw it fall then… thank you. That was kind of you.”

She reached for the ribbon again, because of course she did.Nora blocked her hand again.

“Actually,” Nora said tightly, “she doesn’t need it.”

Ezra’s gaze settled on her fully now — and that was a mistake. Nora suddenly understood prey in the wild.

“Doesn’t she?” he asked, voice quiet.

Aine, ever the social butterfly, tilted her head at him, completely unfazed by Nora’s internal meltdown. “Oh! I’ve never seen you around here before.”

Nora’s brain short-circuited. No. No. No. Please do not ask the man with the irresistible charm his name—that’s the rule!

Ezra’s smile widened ever so slightly, calm and effortless. “I’m Ezra,” he said simply.

Nora froze, her chest tightening. He said it. He actually said it. The name. The exact one from the book.

Aine’s eyes sparkled innocently. “Nice to meet you, Ezra! I’m Aine.”

Then his sharp gaze shifted to me, expecting an answer — an answer I had absolutely no intention of giving.

Nora’s thoughts were a tornado:

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. This is exactly how it happens. The wind. The pastries. The ribbon. He said his name. He is the male lead. I am about to die in a fictional novel. And my best friend is blissfully staring at sugar. FANTASTIC.

Aine, completely unaware of the miniature apocalypse in Nora’s head, smiled at Ezra politely. “Thanks again for the ribbon. I didn’t even notice it before.”

Nora pinched her own nose to stop screaming internally.

Ezra’s gaze softened slightly at Aine’s words — a flicker of emotion passed across his face that vanished as quickly as it came, like he was controlling the world by sheer force of will.

Nora almost dropped the groceries.

“You’re welcome,” he said gently. “I just… thought you might need it.”

Nora blinked. Oh yes, because teleporting ribbons are perfectly normal behavior for market strangers. Absolutely fine. This is casual. Everything is casual. I hate this universe.

Before Aine could say anything else, Nora said sharply, “Great. We should go.”

She didn’t wait. She grabbed Aine’s wrist and marched away like someone had just announced the pastries were poisoned.

They didn’t stop until they reached a quiet alley between a fruit stall and a cart full of terrifyingly large onions.

Aine stared. “What was that?!

Nora tried to speak normally. Failed. Tried again.

“Aine… his name is Ezra.”

Aine paused. “Yeah?”

Nora expected panic. Shock. Horror. Something.

Instead Aine frowned thoughtfully. “It suits him.”

Nora threw her hands up. “Oh fantastic. Wonderful. The universe recasts our lives into a sadistic demon romance novel and your reaction is it suits him?!”

Aine tilted her head. “Nora… are you okay?”

Nora laughed — the hysterical kind that meant no, she was not okay.

Okay, maybe she should tell Aine about the book.About the heroine who looked like her.About the best friend who looked like Nora and died.About the handsome dark stranger named Ezra who killed her.

The words sat right behind her teeth.

But Aine looked so bright, so happy to simply be outside the orphanage, so safe and ordinary in this chaotic world.

And Nora couldn’t do it.

She swallowed the truth like poison.

“Yeah,” she lied softly. “I’m fine.”

Aine squeezed her arm, accepting the answer — because she always did.

Nora, clutching her groceries, muttered under her breath:“Fantastic. He exists. He is real. The book is real. And we are officially in chapter one.”

Aine, sweet and unaware, leaned toward her. “You’re acting weird. He was just being nice.”

“Yes,” Nora said, voice trembling. “Men who look like that and hand ribbons to random orphans are always nice. Happens all the time.”

The wind stirred again. The crowd moved around them. And somewhere behind, Ezra’s shadow lingered — just long enough to remind Nora that fiction had somehow walked into her life.

They continued their shopping. Flour. Soap. Salt. Potatoes. More potatoes because the universe hates joy.

They walked home. Nothing dramatic happened.

Except Nora could not unsee Ezra. Could not unhear his name. Could not un-burn the worry twisting inside her bones.

And that night, as she placed their supplies in the pantry and Sister Imelda checked things off her list, Nora felt it — a weight in her bag.

The book.The cursed book she had tossed across the room.

It was back.

She didn’t look at it. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t mention it.

But a single thought clenched in her chest:

If the book had been right about the meeting…then what else would it be right about?

She lay awake for hours.

Finally, she muttered into her pillow:

“If the universe wants to ruin my life, it can at least send pastries.”