05-24-2025, 08:34 PM
Ezvin took the bound pages from her hands as if she were handing him something far more fragile than paper. Not because he feared it might fall apart, but because he knew what it meant to give something of yourself to someone else without expectations.
His eyes flicked down to the ribbon first. Purple. A choice, deliberate or instinctive. It didn’t matter. Color meant something here. Everything meant something here. His thumb brushed the edge of the front page, but he didn’t open it. Not yet.
He looked up at her then, not the pop star, not the studio perfectionist, not even the girl with fire in her hands and a voice that could silence a stadium, but the woman who had just poured something raw and real out of herself and left it on the altar of the written word. She wasn’t asking for his approval or even his opinion. That’s what made it powerful. It just was.
Ezvin nodded, slow and quiet, the kind of gesture that said I see you more than anything else could have. And what he saw was pretty incredible.
“You know,” he said softly, holding the zine between his palms, “some people spend their whole lives writing around the truth. Circling it. Dressing it up. But this?” He gave the zine the faintest tap. “This kind of honesty? It’s rare. Rarest because you’re being honest with yourself.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t flirtatious or teasing, not this time. It was reverent. Grateful. Maybe even a little protective.
He turned, gesturing for her to follow him again, not to escape the moment but to carry it forward. The zine still in one hand, he led her to the far side of the room, past a mismatched shelf lined with tea candles and pocket notebooks. Taped above the shelf was a sign written in black market that said Leave it. Someone needs it.
Ezvin knelt and slid her zine gently into the shelf, right beside a thin, black-and-white piece titled Things I Regret Not Saying in Elevators. He adjusted the ribbon so it sat perfectly, like a final note in a song. Then he stood, brushing his coat lightly as he turned back to her.
“I used to be scared of things being too permanent,” he said, voice calm, reflective. “I never wanted to leave anything behind unless I could control how it was remembered. Zines broke that habit. You write it. You leave it. No context. No defense. Just… release.” He looked toward the wall of other offerings, his expression softening.
“Someone’ll find it. Maybe tonight. Maybe five months from now. Maybe they’ll cry. Maybe they’ll laugh and not understand why.”
Ezvin turned back toward her then, brow arched slightly, the ghost of a smirk returning not enough to erase the intimacy of the moment, but just enough to remind her who she was dealing with. “And hey…” He gestured loosely toward her eyes, still a little red, but sparkling with emotion.
“Strong look. Very midwinter mystic poet. It works for you.” And he gently grazed her chin with his thumb as if it might offer comfort.
He didn’t push her to move on. Just stood there in the hush that followed, the faint clack of a typewriter echoing in the corner, the air tinged with ink and must. Eventually, he leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and let his eyes drift toward the other corridors.
“Canvas next?” he asked. “Or pottery? Or...” A playful glint in his eye. “Want to take a walk through the sculpture garden and judge the broken art with me like two bitter curators who lost their gallery in a divorce?”
Whatever he chose next, he’d follow.
His eyes flicked down to the ribbon first. Purple. A choice, deliberate or instinctive. It didn’t matter. Color meant something here. Everything meant something here. His thumb brushed the edge of the front page, but he didn’t open it. Not yet.
He looked up at her then, not the pop star, not the studio perfectionist, not even the girl with fire in her hands and a voice that could silence a stadium, but the woman who had just poured something raw and real out of herself and left it on the altar of the written word. She wasn’t asking for his approval or even his opinion. That’s what made it powerful. It just was.
Ezvin nodded, slow and quiet, the kind of gesture that said I see you more than anything else could have. And what he saw was pretty incredible.
“You know,” he said softly, holding the zine between his palms, “some people spend their whole lives writing around the truth. Circling it. Dressing it up. But this?” He gave the zine the faintest tap. “This kind of honesty? It’s rare. Rarest because you’re being honest with yourself.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t flirtatious or teasing, not this time. It was reverent. Grateful. Maybe even a little protective.
He turned, gesturing for her to follow him again, not to escape the moment but to carry it forward. The zine still in one hand, he led her to the far side of the room, past a mismatched shelf lined with tea candles and pocket notebooks. Taped above the shelf was a sign written in black market that said Leave it. Someone needs it.
Ezvin knelt and slid her zine gently into the shelf, right beside a thin, black-and-white piece titled Things I Regret Not Saying in Elevators. He adjusted the ribbon so it sat perfectly, like a final note in a song. Then he stood, brushing his coat lightly as he turned back to her.
“I used to be scared of things being too permanent,” he said, voice calm, reflective. “I never wanted to leave anything behind unless I could control how it was remembered. Zines broke that habit. You write it. You leave it. No context. No defense. Just… release.” He looked toward the wall of other offerings, his expression softening.
“Someone’ll find it. Maybe tonight. Maybe five months from now. Maybe they’ll cry. Maybe they’ll laugh and not understand why.”
Ezvin turned back toward her then, brow arched slightly, the ghost of a smirk returning not enough to erase the intimacy of the moment, but just enough to remind her who she was dealing with. “And hey…” He gestured loosely toward her eyes, still a little red, but sparkling with emotion.
“Strong look. Very midwinter mystic poet. It works for you.” And he gently grazed her chin with his thumb as if it might offer comfort.
He didn’t push her to move on. Just stood there in the hush that followed, the faint clack of a typewriter echoing in the corner, the air tinged with ink and must. Eventually, he leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and let his eyes drift toward the other corridors.
“Canvas next?” he asked. “Or pottery? Or...” A playful glint in his eye. “Want to take a walk through the sculpture garden and judge the broken art with me like two bitter curators who lost their gallery in a divorce?”
Whatever he chose next, he’d follow.