The Weight of Words

Sue sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the cityscape beyond the towering windows of the Baxter Building. Her hands rested limply in her lap, fingers occasionally flexing as if to grasp something intangible. The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the glass, painting the room in a warm, golden hue, but Sue felt none of its warmth. Instead, she felt the slow, creeping chill of unease she couldn’t quite explain.

The chime of the elevator broke her reverie. Sue glanced over her shoulder just as Alicia Masters stepped into the room, a soft smile on her face and her cane tapping gently against the tiled floor.

“Alicia,” Sue greeted, rising to her feet. “This is a surprise.”

“Ben’s working in the lab with Reed,” Alicia said, tilting her head as though to catch the light better. “I thought I’d stop by and check on you.”

Sue smiled faintly, motioning for Alicia to take a seat. “I’m fine, just… thinking.”

Alicia sat gracefully, her expression unreadable but perceptive as always. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

Sue hesitated, her gaze flicking back to the window. “It’s hard to explain. Sometimes I just feel… restless. Like there’s this part of me that I don’t know what to do with.”

Alicia nodded thoughtfully. “That’s not unusual, you know. Everyone needs an outlet, something that’s theirs and theirs alone.”

Sue tilted her head, curious. “What’s yours?”

“Art,” Alicia said without hesitation. “It’s how I process the world, how I understand myself. But it doesn’t have to be art. It could be music, gardening, even reading. You like books, don’t you?”

Sue blinked at the question. “I used to, I guess. Before… well, before life got so busy.”

“You should make time for it,” Alicia urged gently. “Books have a way of holding up a mirror to us, showing us things we might not see otherwise. I think you’d find it… grounding.”

Sue considered this, her fingers unconsciously brushing against the fabric of her slacks. “Maybe you’re right. Any recommendations?”

Alicia’s face lit up. “Actually, yes. There’s a little bookstore near the park I think you’d love. It’s small but full of treasures. If you go, let me know what you find.”

******************

Later that day, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, Sue found herself standing outside the bookstore Alicia had described. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, the scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloping her like a warm embrace. It was quieter than she’d expected, the kind of quiet that made her heart slow and her thoughts come into focus.

She drifted through the aisles, her fingers brushing the spines of books like they were old friends. Fiction, history, romance—each section tempted her to linger. But her feet carried her almost instinctively to the corner where the literary fiction and classics resided.

Her eyes scanned the shelves until they landed on the familiar title: Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. She’d read about it years ago but never picked it up. A story about a woman trapped in a life that felt too small for her, seeking escape through forbidden passions. The premise struck a chord she wasn’t ready to admit. She reached out and pulled it from the shelf, her fingers brushing the embossed title.

As she cradled the book, her gaze wandered, finding Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Another tale of infidelity and societal consequences, another narrative of a woman wrestling with desires she couldn’t confine. She added it to the growing stack in her arms.

Moving further along, a more modern title caught her eye: The End of the Affair by Graham Greene. The summary spoke of a love triangle, guilt, and emotional turmoil set against the backdrop of war. It felt heavier, darker—an emotional mirror to the storm she felt brewing inside herself. She hesitated for only a moment before picking it up.

Finally, she spotted The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood. While its themes were more layered and complex, the undercurrent of betrayal and fractured relationships intrigued her. Another addition to the pile.

Sue looked down at the four books in her hands and felt a strange mix of embarrassment and relief. These stories weren’t just about infidelity or betrayal—they were about longing, escape, and the messy, unspoken truths of life. Still, she couldn’t shake the shame that lingered at the edges of her thoughts. What if someone saw her with these? What would they think?

She made her way to the counter, her movements brisk as if she were doing something illicit. The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, didn’t comment as she rang up the books. Sue paid quickly, tucking the brown paper bag under her arm like it held some forbidden treasure.

******************

Back at the Baxter Building, Sue slipped into her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. She pulled the books out of the bag and stared at them for a long moment before opening the closet. Behind a row of neatly hung blouses, she reached for a shoebox on the top shelf. Inside were a few mementos she rarely touched—old letters, a dried flower, a small bracelet Franklin had made her years ago. She placed the books inside carefully, as if they might shatter under the weight of her guilt.

Her heart raced as she slid the box back into place and shut the closet door. It was silly, she knew. They were just books. But they felt like so much more—an admission of something she wasn’t ready to voice.

******************

The following day, Sue was folding laundry in the living room when Franklin wandered in, holding something in his small hands.

“Mom, what’s this?” he asked, his big blue eyes wide with curiosity. He held up a paperback copy of Anna Karenina, the cover slightly bent from where he’d been holding it.

Sue’s breath caught in her throat. “Where did you find that, sweetheart?” she asked, keeping her tone light despite the tightness in her chest.

“In the closet,” Franklin said innocently. “I was looking for the bracelet I made you. Is it a storybook?”

“Yes,” Sue said quickly, crossing the room to take the book from him. “But it’s for grown-ups. Not really something you’d enjoy.”

Franklin frowned. “It looks kinda boring. Why do you read boring stuff, Mom?”

Sue **** a laugh, ruffling his hair. “Because moms are boring, remember? Now, go wash up for dinner.”

As Franklin scampered off, Sue let out a shaky breath. She stared down at the book in her hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than before. She placed it back in the closet later that night, double-checking that the shoebox was pushed all the way to the back. The small moment with Franklin lingered in her mind, a reminder of how much she was keeping to herself—and how close those secrets were to slipping out.