Chapter 1: Beneath the Ink
Matteo’s POV
I sit at my desk, the soft hum of the city outside seeping through the cracks of my window. The light from the lamp on my desk casts long shadows across the paper, taunting me with the emptiness of the page. The words sit at the edge of my mind, waiting, but as always, I struggle to summon them.
Love. It’s always love.
People think I understand it. They read my books, feel the tenderness in my words, and imagine that I live in that world. But I don’t. The truth is, love exists only in these stories I craft, in the words I lace together to build an illusion of something I’ve never truly known. My fingers hover over the page, trying to breathe life into an emotion that I can’t quite grasp.
What I can grasp—what feels real—are the books I read. Dark stories of betrayal, anger, and hatred. They’ve always called to me. I’ve spent countless nights tearing through pages filled with cruelty and vengeance, books that paint the world in shades of black and gray. That’s the side of life that feels more tangible to me. Perhaps that’s why I can write love so easily. It’s distant, like a dream. Hate, on the other hand, feels close, pressing in from all sides.
My eyes drift to the small bookshelf in the corner of my room. There, tucked between other worn spines, is Crimson Vows by Arcelia Ellsworth. I’ve read it countless times, and yet, each time I open the book, something new grabs hold of me, pulls me deeper into the storm of her words. Her writing is raw, visceral, full of anger that makes my heart race. There’s a depth in her work that I can’t explain, something I recognize even if I can’t name it.
Who is she? This Arcelia Ellsworth, this ghost who writes about hatred as though she’s lived through hell itself. I’ve searched for her, tried to learn more, but she’s a shadow. No interviews, no photographs, nothing beyond the words she leaves behind. And yet, when I read her work, it feels as if I know her. As if we’re connected somehow, through this invisible thread of words.
I want to write her a letter sometimes. Ask her why. Why does she write about hate? Where does it come from? But then, I stop myself. What would I say? “I write about love, but I don’t believe in it?” Ridiculous.
So instead, I open the book again, letting her words wash over me. Maybe, somewhere in them, I’ll find a piece of the answer I’ve been searching for.
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Arcelia’s POV
The rain taps against the window in a soft rhythm, filling the quiet of my room. I’ve been staring at the page in front of me for hours, my pen resting in my hand, but the words haven’t come yet. It’s always like this before I write. The anger builds up slowly, simmering beneath the surface until it spills out. And then I write. Stories of hate, of betrayal, of lives destroyed by the cruelty of others.
People think I write from experience. That I must have lived through some deep, scarring pain to write the way I do. But the truth is, I haven’t. Not really. I write about hate, but I don’t feel it. Not the way my characters do. I don’t know where it comes from, but it pours out of me nonetheless, like it’s been there all along, waiting to be released.
But in the quiet hours, when I’m not writing, I turn to something else.
Love. I don’t write about it, but I read it. Books about tenderness, about connection, about hope. Stories that feel foreign to me, but that I crave nonetheless. It’s as if by reading about love, I can fill the space inside me that my own stories leave empty.
My eyes drift to the book on my nightstand, A Love Rewritten by Matteo Agostina. I’ve read it a dozen times, maybe more. His writing is soft, almost fragile, like he understands something that I don’t. I envy the way he can capture love so easily, like it’s a part of him. I wonder sometimes if Matteo Agostina is anything like his stories. Does he know love the way his characters do? Or is he, like me, writing about something that exists only in the pages of his books?
I’ve never looked him up. Never tried to find him. Maybe because I don’t want to know the truth. Maybe I prefer to imagine him as his stories—gentle, quiet, filled with the kind of emotion I can only write about in fragments.
Still, there’s a part of me that wonders. What drives someone to write about love the way he does? Is it something he’s lived, or is it as foreign to him as love is to me?
I pick up the book, my fingers tracing the letters of his name. Matteo Agostina. The man behind the love stories. The name is a mystery, like the man himself. A mystery that feels both distant and strangely close, as if we are connected somehow, though I’ve never met him, never spoken a word to him.
Maybe one day, I’ll learn more. But for now, I’ll stay in the shadows, content with the distance between us.
Matteo’s POV
I close the book, though it’s like trying to shut a door on a storm. Arcelia’s words still swirl in my head, dark and heavy, settling in places I’ve never explored. I’ve always been drawn to stories like hers, but with her… it’s different. Her writing feels personal, like an echo of something hidden inside me, something I’ve never fully acknowledged.
I rise from the chair, running my hands through my hair in frustration. Why does she have this effect on me? I don’t even know her. She’s just a name. A ghost behind pages. I shouldn’t be obsessing over someone I’ve never met, but somehow, her words feel more real to me than anyone I’ve ever known.
Restless, I pace around my apartment. Outside, the city is alive, the distant sounds of traffic and voices seeping through the walls. But it all feels distant, like I’m watching the world from behind glass. I rarely go out anymore, and when I do, it’s usually just for quick trips to a bookstore or a café. The rest of the world—the noise, the chaos—feels too much. My comfort lies here, in the silence, in the stories I create and consume.
I pull out my phone, opening the browser. My fingers hover over the search bar for a moment before I type her name: Arcelia Ellsworth. It’s not the first time I’ve searched for her, and as usual, the results are sparse. No interviews, no public appearances, no social media. It’s as if she exists only in her books, a ghost who vanishes the moment you try to find her.
I’ve never felt this urge with any other author. Maybe it’s because she writes about the things I don’t dare touch. Or maybe it’s because, in some strange way, I feel like she understands something about me, even though we’ve never met. The thought is ridiculous, but it lingers. I close the browser and toss my phone onto the couch.
As I sit back down at my desk, I glance at the half-finished manuscript in front of me. The love story I’ve been working on for months, but one that feels more hollow with each passing day. The words used to flow easily, but now… now, everything feels forced. I can’t help but wonder if Arcelia feels the same when she writes about hate. Does she feel as disconnected from her stories as I do from mine? And if so, why does she keep writing them?
The thought strikes me like a cold wind: maybe she writes about hate because it’s the opposite of what she craves. Maybe, like me, she’s searching for something in her stories that she can’t find in her own life.
Before I know it, I’m opening the book again, flipping through the pages. I don’t know what I’m looking for—an answer, a connection, something. But all I find are the same words, the same darkness that pulls me in, deeper and deeper.
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Arcelia’s POV
The rain hasn’t stopped. It’s as if the sky has opened up and decided to pour its soul onto the earth. I listen to the rhythmic patter against the window, a sound that should soothe me, but instead feels like a reminder of the distance between me and the rest of the world.
I place Matteo’s book on the nightstand, letting it rest there, though I can’t help but glance at it again. There’s a pull in his words, a softness that I don’t understand, but desperately wish I could. It’s the kind of love that feels… impossible. And yet, every time I read his stories, I find myself lost in them, imagining for a moment that love like that could exist for someone like me.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Love exists in stories, not in real life. Not for someone like me, who has spent more time writing about revenge and anger than anything resembling tenderness. The world I write is cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Yet the world Matteo writes feels like a place I want to hide in.
I shake the thought away and stand, moving to the small desk by the window. The rain streaks down the glass, distorting the view outside. It mirrors the way I feel—distorted, blurred, as if I’m only half present in my own life. I sit down and pick up my pen, staring at the blank page.
The anger hasn’t come yet. Sometimes, it takes time to rise, to build. But tonight, it’s absent, leaving only an empty space where my stories usually come from. I tap the pen against the paper, waiting, but nothing happens. My thoughts are elsewhere, on someone else’s words.
Matteo Agostina.
His name echoes in my mind, soft and distant, like the characters in his novels. There’s something about him—his writing, his stories—that makes me wonder if he feels the same way I do. Does he ever feel disconnected from the world, from the stories he creates? Or does he truly believe in the love he writes about?
I’ve never searched for him. I don’t even know what he looks like. I prefer it that way, I think. If I knew, it might break the illusion, the connection I feel with his words. Still, the curiosity gnaws at me. Who is Matteo Agostina, really? And why does his writing feel like a balm for wounds I didn’t know I had?
The pen in my hand feels heavy, but I force myself to write. The words come slowly at first, jagged and sharp, but they take shape as they always do. I write about hate because it’s easy. It pours out of me without effort, filling the empty spaces in my life. But as I write, I can’t stop thinking about love. About what it would be like to write something different. Something softer, something real.
But that’s not who I am. That’s not what I write.
I push the thoughts away and let the anger flow onto the page. It’s easier this way. Easier to hide behind the rage, behind the darkness, than to admit that I crave the very thing I can’t have
Matteo’s POV
The rain picks up outside, a steady beat that matches the rhythm of my thoughts. I’ve given up on writing for the night. The story isn’t coming, and my mind is too tangled with thoughts of Arcelia, of the strange connection I feel to her words.
I stand by the window, staring out at the city, wondering if she’s out there somewhere, staring at her own window, lost in her own thoughts. It’s a ridiculous notion, but it’s there, nagging at the edges of my mind. The more I think about it, the more I want to know her. Not just her writing, but her. The person behind the words.
But I can’t. We’re strangers. Separate, isolated. Our connection is nothing more than ink on paper.
Still, I can’t help but feel that something is about to change. Something is stirring, just beyond the horizon, like a storm waiting to break.
And when it does, I wonder if we’ll finally find what we’ve both been searching for.
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Arcelia’s POV
I stop writing. The rain is louder now, and with it comes a feeling I can’t shake. It’s as if something is shifting, something I can’t quite see but can feel, just beneath the surface. I glance at Matteo’s book again, and a strange thought crosses my mind.
What if he’s thinking about me, too?that can’t be true it's just a illusion.
Matteo’s POV
The next morning, I wake up with a headache, the kind that lingers from a restless night spent tossing and turning. I sit at my desk, staring at the stack of papers that make up my unfinished manuscript. The deadline is approaching, but the story remains as stubborn as ever.
I’ve been working as a freelance editor for years, mostly for small publishing houses, polishing other writers’ work while my own stories sit half-finished. It pays the bills, but it’s not fulfilling—not like writing. Editing is clinical, detached. But writing, that’s where the real work happens. Or at least, it used to be.
I take a sip of my now-cold coffee and sigh. The love story I’m supposed to be finishing feels more distant than ever. Each scene, each moment between the characters feels forced, like I’m trying too hard to capture something I don’t really believe in anymore.
Arcelia’s words haunt me, slipping into the cracks of my doubt. Her writing about hate is raw, unflinching, and in some strange way, it mirrors the frustration I feel with love. It makes me wonder—does she struggle the way I do? Does she ever sit at her desk, staring at a blank page, searching for something real but finding only emptiness?
With a grunt of frustration, I push the manuscript aside and open my laptop. The editing work is piling up, and it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. I pull up the latest manuscript from a client—a historical romance set in 18th-century France. Normally, I’d enjoy the escape, but today, it feels like a chore.
My phone buzzes with a notification from my younger brother, Luca. He’s texting about the family restaurant, the one I’ve barely been to in months. Growing up, I always thought I’d work there, that I’d be part of the family tradition. But when I found writing, it was like discovering a new part of myself—a part that didn’t fit into the restaurant world.
Still, I owe it to Luca to show up. He’s been running the place almost entirely on his own, and I’ve been hiding in my apartment, avoiding the noise of the world outside. I quickly type a reply, telling him I’ll stop by tomorrow. I have no excuse not to. The manuscript in front of me isn’t going anywhere.
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Arcelia’s POV
My laptop sits on the cluttered desk, a blinking cursor mocking me. I haven’t written anything new in days, maybe even weeks. My publisher is growing impatient, but I can’t seem to find the energy to care. Hate is easy to write, or at least it used to be. Now, every word feels like a heavy burden, a reminder of the walls I’ve built around myself.
I close the document with a sigh and glance out the window. The rain has stopped, but the clouds linger, casting a grey shadow over the city. I’m supposed to have a meeting with my agent today, but the thought of leaving my apartment feels exhausting. It’s not just the physical act of going out—it’s the emotional effort of pretending everything’s fine when, in reality, I feel disconnected from everything and everyone.
On the surface, my life looks successful. I’ve sold books, I have a dedicated readership, and my stories about revenge and darkness resonate with people. But it’s starting to feel like I’ve trapped myself in a cycle I can’t break out of. I write about hate because it’s what I know, but lately, it feels like there’s something else, something just out of reach, that I want to explore.
My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. It’s my brother, Caleb. He’s a corporate lawyer, a stark contrast to my isolated writer’s life. We don’t talk often, but when we do, it’s usually about practical things. He worries about me, I know that, but he doesn’t understand why I’ve chosen this path. He’s always been the pragmatic one, while I’ve always been the dreamer—if you can call writing about darkness “dreaming.”
“Arcelia, are you coming to Mom’s this weekend?” His voice is as straightforward as ever, no room for small talk.
“I don’t know, Caleb,” I reply, already feeling the weight of the conversation. “I’ve got a deadline.”
“You always have a deadline,” he says, frustration creeping into his tone. “You need to take a break. You’re working yourself to the bone.”
I don’t argue because, deep down, I know he’s right. But going home, facing my family, feels like stepping into a world where I don’t belong anymore. Caleb thrives in that world of order and structure, but I’ve never fit in. Writing was my way out, my escape. And now, even that feels like a cage.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, though we both know it’s unlikely I’ll show up.
After the call, I stare at the screen again, at the blinking cursor. The words won’t come. I open a book instead—Matteo’s latest novel. His stories have become my escape, the one place where I can feel something other than the weight of my own words. I flip through the pages, letting the softness of his world wash over me. There’s a tenderness in his writing, a vulnerability that I wish I could tap into. But I don’t know how. Hate, anger—that’s easy. Love, softness—they’re foreign to me.
I close the book and stand, moving to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As I wait for the water to boil, I think about Matteo again. I’ve never met him, but his words feel like a lifeline, a way to connect with something I can’t quite name. Maybe I’m not the only one struggling with my own stories.
The kettle whistles, and I pour the water over the tea leaves, watching the steam rise. Outside, the clouds hang heavy, but for the first time in days, I feel a sliver of hope. Maybe the words will come after all.
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Matteo’s POV
The clock reads past midnight, and I’m still sitting at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor. The rain has finally stopped, leaving the city in a heavy, damp silence. I close Arcelia’s book and lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of everything I haven’t written press down on me.
It’s strange. I don’t know why her words are circling in my head, but I feel like I’m on the edge of something. All I know is that the way I’ve been writing, the way I’ve been living—it’s not enough anymore.
I glance at my manuscript, the unfinished love story that no longer feels true to me. I reach for the keyboard, my fingers hovering over the keys. For the first time in a long time, I feel the pull to write—not about love, but something real, something raw.
I start typing, letting the words flow, exploring the tension between wanting something you can’t have and refusing to admit you need it.
As I write, a sense of clarity washes over me. The rain outside begins again, tapping softly against the window, and I lose track of time, lost in the rhythm of the words.
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Arcelia’s POV
I can’t sleep. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the rain-soaked city outside, the sound of water dripping from the roof breaking the silence of my apartment. I reach for Matteo’s book, my fingers brushing the cover, feeling a familiar urge to read.
I’ve read it a hundred times, but tonight it feels different. The anger that usually fuels my writing is absent, leaving room for something softer. I walk to my desk and sit down, trailing my fingers over the scattered pages of my latest manuscript.
I pick up my pen, hesitating for a moment before I start to write—not about hate, but about longing. I let the words flow, exploring feelings that have been buried for too long.
With each stroke of the pen, I find myself slipping deeper into the story, the rhythm of my thoughts matching the light patter of rain against the window.
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Matteo’s POV
I stop typing and stare at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. The rain has started up again, light and steady, like it’s washing the city clean. I feel the shift, the change, the pull toward something I can’t quite name.
The storm is breaking.
And as I continue to write, a new story takes shape, one that feels more authentic, more like me.
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Arcelia’s POV
The rain taps lightly against the window as I write, my hand moving faster than it has in months. There’s something different in the air tonight, something I can’t explain but can feel in my bones.
I stop and look out at the city, a soft smile tugging at the corner of my lips as I embrace the quiet.
The storm is breaking.
And with each word, I sense a new chapter beginning.
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End of Chapter
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