The first time I saw Mia, she was covered in paint.
Splashes of cobalt blue streaked across her faded overalls, her hair pulled into a messy bun that barely contained its rebellion. She’d burst into the bookstore, eyes gleaming with the kind of curiosity that makes people forget their own urgency. I had been shelving books in the poetry section, lost in the rhythm of organizing chaos, when she skidded to a stop in front of me, out of breath.
“Hi,” she said, pointing at the small painting in her hand. “Do you have anything that feels like this?”
I blinked, looking down at the painting. It was abstract—wild strokes of blues and golds, clashing but harmonious. It looked like a hurricane caught mid-spin.
“I’m sorry… feels like this?” I repeated, more confused than anything.
“Yes, this. Movement. Chaos. But, like, beautiful chaos. A poem, a book, whatever.” She stared at me like the answer was obvious, like I should already have something pulled off the shelf and waiting.
“Well,” I said slowly, scanning the titles, “you could try Whitman, or maybe Neruda?”
She sighed dramatically. “No, not Whitman. He’s too neat. Neruda…” She tilted her head. “Maybe. Do you have something messier? Raw?”
I wasn’t sure if she was serious or playing some kind of elaborate joke. “Maybe Bukowski?”
She grinned, her teeth white against the cobalt smear on her cheek. “Now we’re talking.”
Mia was chaos personified. From that day, she was a constant in my life. We weren’t dating—we weren’t even friends in the traditional sense. She showed up unannounced, pulling me into her wild world of rooftop gardens, midnight gallery openings, and abandoned buildings turned art installations.
She wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. Everything about her screamed movement—her art, her stories, the way she talked, her quick smiles. And I, the steady, predictable bookseller, was hooked.
But then, one day, she disappeared. She left no trace, no goodbye. I went to her studio, but it was empty, the walls stripped bare, the chaos gone. I told myself to move on, but I couldn’t stop wondering. Where had she gone? Why had she left?
Months later, a letter arrived in my mailbox, addressed in handwriting that could only belong to Mia: hurried, uneven, like she’d written it mid-run. Inside was a short note.
“Meet me at the place we found the blue light. Tomorrow, 7 PM.”
The “blue light.” That rooftop garden with the glowing string lights. I hadn’t been there since the last time she’d dragged me to one of her impromptu adventures. My heart raced at the thought of seeing her again.
The next day, I arrived early, climbing up the rickety fire escape. The air was crisp, and the sky was a deep indigo, speckled with stars. And there she was, standing by the edge, her back to me, gazing out at the city skyline.
“Mia,” I called out.
She turned, her expression soft and a little nervous. She wasn’t the vibrant whirlwind I remembered—she seemed smaller, more subdued. She held something in her hand, a sketchbook.
“You came,” she said quietly.
“You disappeared,” I replied. “What happened?”
She hesitated, clutching the sketchbook to her chest. “I’ve been running my whole life, and I thought… I thought maybe I could stop this time. But then I found something I couldn’t ignore.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, stepping closer.
She handed me the sketchbook. “Open it.”
The pages were filled with drawings. Familiar scenes—our bookstore, the rooftop, even a few of me, sketched in her messy, beautiful style. But as I flipped further, the images changed. They were darker, fragmented, filled with symbols I didn’t recognize. At the very end, there was a single word scrawled in bold, jagged letters: RUN.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking up at her.
“I found something I wasn’t supposed to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s dangerous. I can’t stay in one place because… because they’re looking for me.”
“Who?” I asked, my throat tightening.
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “But they’ve been following me ever since I started painting it.”
“Painting what?” I demanded.
She stepped closer, gripping my arm, her eyes wide with urgency. “That painting I showed you—the one I brought to the bookstore. It wasn’t just a painting. It’s… it’s like a map, but not to a place. To an idea. Something people want. Something I accidentally unlocked.”
I stared at her, trying to process her words. “Mia, this sounds—”
“Crazy, I know,” she interrupted. “But I need you to trust me. If they think you know anything about me, about this… you’re not safe either.”
Before I could respond, a sharp noise echoed from below—the sound of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, climbing the fire escape.
Her eyes widened. “They’re here.”
“Who?” I whispered, panic creeping into my voice.
“Just go!” she hissed, pushing me toward the opposite side of the rooftop. “There’s another ladder. Take it. Don’t look back.”
“Mia, I can’t just leave you—”
“You have to!” she snapped, her voice breaking. “This is what I do, remember? I run. It’s the only way I survive.”
The footsteps grew louder, closer. She shoved the sketchbook into my hands. “Keep this safe. And Finn… don’t come looking for me.”
Before I could stop her, she darted toward the fire escape, disappearing into the shadows just as two figures climbed onto the rooftop, their faces obscured by hoods.
I didn’t wait to see what happened next. Clutching the sketchbook, I found the other ladder and climbed down, my heart pounding with every step. By the time I reached the alley below, the rooftop was silent.
I never saw Mia again. I didn’t know who those people were or what they wanted, but I kept the sketchbook hidden, afraid to open it again. Some nights, I wonder if Mia is still out there, running from whatever she uncovered. And sometimes, I think I catch glimpses of her—on a crowded street, or in the corner of a café, always moving, always one step ahead.
She was chaos, yes. But now, I know, she was chaos with a secret too dangerous to stop running from. And I was left with nothing but questions, a sketchbook, and the memory of a girl who burned as brightly as the stars she was forever chasing.