On Sunday I don't feel like doing anything. My small pile of books lies purposeless next to my bed and makes an extra table for my phone. Every now and then my hand reaches for it, but up till now I've managed to contain myself. I can't look at his face without hearing his last words. He was saying goodbye, I know it. I'll never see him again.

Longer than usual I stick around my mum, watching silly shows on Netflix. I even call my father to arrange for me spending a week with him this summer. His happy response cheers me up a bit, but not enough to make me happy as well. Isla texts me and I text back. No, I can't go into town with her, I've run out of money days ago. Spend it all on almond paste cakes and cups of Latte Macchiato. It's a lame excuse of course and Isla sees right through my transparency. So I text her I'm having an off day, because I am obligated to spend a whole week with my father, because my mother wants to get rid of me. It's the truth. I am having a bad day and I do have to go to my dad's. She doesn't need to know those two aren't connected.

Would it be fun to tell her about my weird book-thing? I'd have to test first if it's possible to take someone with me over the border and I don't feel up to it now.

Before I know it, it's eight o'clock and I'm in my training bottoms and sweatshirt on my bed, staring at the black screen of my cellphone. In may lap is the booklet with the blue linen cover. Without noticing it, I advanced further and further in the story. There's only a few pages left that separate the ribbon from the ending. For five minutes I'm sitting totally still, not doing anything. Then I take a deep breath, put my phone aside and open my paper portal.

The room is empty.

I crawl backwards on the bed and wait with my back against the wall for a sign of life. Through my mind fly all the words I've read this last few days. Has it only been a short week? Did I even finish the booklet the first time I read it? I can't remember the ending.

I'm sure he won't come and still I remain seated. Outside the sky colours darker, until the oil lamp is the only light my eyes can find. Then I get up.

It feels wrong to leave the lantern on with nobody in the room, so I open the glass door and blow out the flame. When I turn around to find my way back to the bed, I suddenly bump into something big. A soft thing. A thing that says: "Why is it so dark in here?"

I think I wake up the entire household with the scream that leaves my lungs.

"Wow, Zara, take it easy, it's only me. I thought ... I thought that ... I wasn't sure you'd be here. I wanted to give you something, but I was too afraid and so I planned on leaving it behind. But that's stupid, because it will only disappear in the book."

My ears ring and my heart is beating so fast he must hear it and I'm mad at him, but at the same time incredibly relieved he's here. So my arms find his waist and I hold on for dear life.

A few seconds later I feel his hands patting my back and I laugh out loud, because I can totally imagine how awkward this must be for him.

"Sorry, I had to do that. I was afraid I'd never see you again and that would be awful. Not, not that I want anything from you, I mean, I know we can never, well, you know. And I know you're gay, probably, and that-"

My rambling gets cut off abruptly by two hands that grab my shoulders and push me back with some force.

"Gay?" His voice spikes. "What makes you think that?"

The moon must be out, because I'm beginning to see a little again. His silhouette traces a black outline against the grey surroundings. I stammer: "N... not? I thought, you and Michael. You were so heartbroken for losing him. The booklet ... well, it was never implied, but each time I mentioned him you got this sad look in your eyes."

"Can't a guy have a best friend any more?" His voice breaks a little.

"Yes, of course. Sorry, I just assumed and that was silly, apparently, so." I feel like a total klutz. It isn't like I've even thought about it, much. I'm usually the last person to notice these things.

"Are you mad at me?" I stare at the black floor beneath my invisible feet.

Chuckling above me loosens the knot in my chest.

"No, not mad. You're right, it could have been, but no, I'm not gay. Do you want proof?"

Before I can answer that, I feel his searching hand on my face and two seconds later his lips on mine.

My heart stops and then tries to catch up the missed beats with double speed. The kiss lasts way to short and I want to say so much and ask so many questions, but he finds my hand, puts something in it and merely says: "Brotherhood, the end". And he's gone.

---

It's a letter.

At least, I think there's a letter inside the white envelope. It's wrinkled, as if he made a ball and then smoothed it out again.

I'm sitting on my bed in the same position as I have sat for at least an hour. All the time staring at the envelop. Alright, maybe not a whole hour, but at least half an hour. Okay, fine, ten minutes for sure. Long enough to have recovered from the shock, right?

My heart is beating too fast and I can still feel the echo of his kiss on my lips. I've been kissed. Inside a book. By this perfect, intelligent, book reading, handsome nineteen year old boy, who is absolutely not gay. And oh, yes, he lives in America. I close my eyes and exhale.

Then I flip the envelop and put my pinky in the corner to rip it open. It's one of those triangle envelopes, that you have to lick and doesn't have a self-adhesive strip. And being the halfwit that I am, I briefly press the envelop against my lips.

There's indeed a letter inside. A very short one, only five lines of text, but when I read them and re-read them, over and over, my cheeks start to hurt because of the wide smile I can't seem to get rid off.

'For Zara' It says, in English. 'I'm going to miss you, so ..." and then there's three lines of an address. An address in Boulder.

I begin to laugh out loud and quickly cover my mouth with my hand.

---

Monday morning I'm a total wreck, because it was after three o'clock that I was finally able to fall asleep. Thank you adrenaline. Although it might also have something to do with Google Maps, who was kind enough to offer me a perfect view of the top of Sorley's house.

Actually I wanted to start with writing a letter right away, but because I couldn't find paper anywhere and a torn leaf from my notebook didn't seem good enough, it'll have to wait. Mum will probably have some stationary.

I yawn every other minute when I slowly move the spoons full of yoghurt and muesli to my mouth. My mothers disapproving chk chk I ignore.

My head is in the clouds when I ride my bike to school. I'm floating on the wind during English class, where I disappear in works about American history. And I'm still dreaming when I follow Isla to our usual lunch spot. It's not until she hits my forehead with the palm of her hand that I fall back to earth.

"There really must be a boy in your live, tell me, who is it? Is he in our year? He is in this school, right? Oooh", she sucks in her breath, "was that the 'thing' you had this weekend? Not, and I quote", she wiggles her fingers besides her head, "a thing with my mother. You have a boyfriend, don't you?"

All eyes are on me. Isla's enraptured, Britt totally jealous and the others are a mixture between a bit and very interested

"N... no", I manage to squeeze out. At once all expressions change. Now Isla is disappointed and Britt satisfied. Britt is no friend of mine.

"Not really? Oh that's too bad, but there is someone, right? You can't be this distracted and not think about a boy. Who is it?" She names a few names. My face follows that summery with expressions of horror, humour, disbelief and fun. After the seventh or eighth name, I shake my head and mutter: "You don't know him."

Her scream is deafening. "I knew it, I knew it, aaah. What's his name? Where does he live? Oh I want to know everything. Tell me, tell me."

With a wide eyed expression I gaze around. Isla's outburst made everyone look our way. Not in a million years will I say anything now. Luckily Isla isn't my best friend for nothing, because she immediately realizes her mistake. Hooking her arm through mine, she pulls me up and away to a more secluded spot.

What ever her faults may be, she can keep a secret. When we are out of reach from prying ears a few minutes later, she looks at me expectantly and with a sigh I say: "His name is Sorley."

"Sorley? What kind of a strange name is that?"

"It's Irish", I defend his parents, who must have given him that name.

"Is he Irish?"

We sit down on a wall and before I continue, I stuff my mouth with the last piece of my bread. That gives me some time to decide what I can or cannot tell her. Not the truth, of course, but it mustn't diverge too much from the truth. Just imagine we ever get together – I don't see it happening, yet my imagination obviously does – she'll probably meet him one day.

"I don't think so, he lives in America", I answer, when I swallowed my bite.

"America?" Isla echoes. "How did you manage that?"

"Through a book -club. We were reading the same book and got talking."

"You, meet a guy, through a book club?" Scepticism is dripping from her voice and I completely understand that. The combination of me and books is still a bit unbelievable.

"It's not really a book club, more like a forum, no, a comment-thing. You know, someone writes something about something and others comment on it. Anyway, that doesn't matter, but we got talking and well ..." I almost pop out that he kissed me, but there is no simple way to explain that, so I swallow the words and give an awkward smiling shrug.

"Zara, you are a weird person, but you knew that. I'm so happy for you." Isla hugs me after which the bell interrupts us.

"Don't tell anyone, okay?"

She draws a zipper over her lips and arm in arm we walk back into school.

---

"Mum, do you have stationary?"

"Stationary? What's wrong with your e-mail?"

"No e-mail-address. Do you have it?"

"No of course not, use a printer sheet."

If I must. A neat white sheet is probably better than a ripped leaflet. Or does that look like I'm trying too hard? And a leaflet from my notebook has lines, that will read better than without.

Moments later I tear, as best as I can, a leaflet from my notebook and now my pen is tapping on my desk like a runaway telegraph. What in the world am I suppose to write?

Dear Sorley,

I scratch that immediately. First draft it is.

Hey Sorley,

<I got your letter. Thank you for your letter.>

I restarted this letter a thousand times, how bad is that.

It seems so strange to send a letter. Sometimes it feels like I've known you for years and then I count back and it's only been a <few days> week. I have no idea how long this letter will take to get there. I hope I've put enough stamps on it, or else: sorry.

<Why don't you send me an e-mail?>

Oh, and get an e-mail address, that is so much easier and quicker. I send you mine. Saves you stamps.

Forty-five minutes later I'm fairly satisfied and go on a hunt for an envelop.

"Do we have stamps?" I yell through the house.

"In the bottom drawer of my desk", comes the answer from the living room.

Before I loose my courage, I run to the closest mailbox and throw the envelop through the slot.

Completely out of breath, I arrive back at the house. I have to tell someone, so I text Isla: Mailed him a letter.

Soon after she texts back: You go girl! Followed by a whole row of hearts. A giggle escapes me and I bolt up the stairs to my room.

Homework is a good distraction and it calms my heart rate until it has a healthy pace again.

I only get distracted three times by Google Maps and twice by Sorley's picture. I'm very proud of myself.

I'm certain I won't find him in the old attic room of the O'Shea's Irish manor house again, so I take the blue booklet with me downstairs. At the kitchen table, next to my mother, I read the last chapter. It's only one page long.

It simply tells how Sorley puts the big book back on the shelf and never looks at it again. He finds a new purpose and has many more adventures.

Somehow I can't rhyme the somewhat stiff and emotionless words with Sorley's inspired speech about why he loves to read long stories. But hey, not every reader is an author. Would he mean me by that new purpose? A tingly heat spreads through my arms and legs, until I realize he could just have grabbed a new book.

---

The rest of the week I try to focus on my school work. I say yes to every activity Isla comes up with and especially don't try to think about my letter. Postnl says it'll take at least a week to get to the United States.

I limit my paper walking to the evenings and follow in Sorley's footsteps. No more bits and pieces. Together with the main character, I experience the story from a to z and I try my best to reflect on it intellectually. I don't always manage, because it's just so much fun to do. I also don't manage to get the teacup from 'Alice in Wonderland'.

At the end of the story we had to run so fast that I dropped everything and when we woke up with Alice's sister, there wasn't anything to take back. Perhaps I should bring a bag next time.

The ring that Bilbo finds in 'The Hobbit' is way to scary for me to touch, but on Thursday I try to bring back something that's alive from a book. I pick an innocent little story about the life of a young girl that gets to live with a cat-lady. The kittens are so adorable I really don't want to leave, but then, with a soft, woolly fluff ball in my hands, I say the title and 'the end'. After all I can bring the little critter straight back if I have to.

It doesn't work. My hands are empty, safe for the book. Oh well, it was too good to be true anyway. Apparently it doesn't work with living things. Probably won't work with a human at all. Why would that be?

I don't feel like philosophizing, at least not on my own. Pff, why didn't I send the letter by urgent shipping.

Every day I browse my social media accounts. Not that I have much hope, because you have to log in to comment and if he didn't have accounts before, he's certainly not going to get them just for me. Yet still I look and get disappointed every time.

What if he doesn't even have an e-mail? Right, that's very unlikely. He wouldn't be that out of tough with the world? After all, he has a cellphone. Oh please let him have Whatsapp.