.04.

I've spent longer than usual reading The Three Musketeers. Took me a whole night instead of half the night.

After I departed the cafe at around 7 o'clock in the evening, I ambled down to the underground station, took the District line home, staring blankly at my window reflection in the tube. I then trudged to my house, Lana Del Rey blaring in my headphones. I almost felt as if I was a truly depressed teenager, except I wasn't a teenager anymore.

Mum was upset I was late for dinner; she likes to bring our small family together at dinnertime. Dad works morning to night at the construction site, whilst Mum teaches at a local primary school.

And I?

I guess at the moment I am living off my parents for as long as I can until the day I can afford to live on my own. It's difficult to work as a university student, although I have always wished to work at a museum, especially at the Natural History Museum.

When I used to be a little girl, Dad liked buying the latest issues of magazines with gems and stones as a gift. I would line them along my dressing table, admiring them until I turned sixteen years old. Dad would also take me to the Science Museum next to the Natural History Museum, telling me stories about each exponent and emphasising the importance of science and geology.

My poor father spent hundreds of pounds, guiding me towards the path of geology and science, not realising that by taking me to museums he has been raising an artist.

But what is so undesirable and regrettable in being an artist? Artist sees through the facade and walls, and the artist is capable of analysing what's before him in more depth than any other person can. Being an artist means you can see the beauty in the complete range of hues and colours. Scientists can, too, however, there is something marvelous, historic in artistry.

I wonder what course Thomas is taking at his university, I assume it's something to do with mathematics or IT, in his case I can't use my vibe-determiner efficiently.

I place the book on the bedside table and lock my hands under my neck, staring at the ceiling. The light of the morning sun pours through my tiny window, painting my room in gold, its bands stretch along the ceiling and reflect off the mirrors, leaving dancing sunbeams on the cream walls.

Cars make their way through the neighbourhood past our house, and I could just hear through the opened window people running by the heavy footsteps and erratic breathing. Birds chirping in the background aid me in arranging my thoughts on the shelves of my mind.

Why would someone like Thomas like The Three Musketeers? Why would anyone like it in the first place?

Thomas is an interesting guy, indeed. It's not the first time I have seen baristas read, but it's my first time seeing a guy read this book. Young people nowadays tend to read classics, more contemporary literature.

The book itself is a tale of adventures. Exciting. Gripping. Humorous. Remarkable.

It narrates a tale of loyalty, friendship and bravery. There is no 'true love' soap opera, this book is what I'd call - a book to experience a second-hand adventure you wouldn't ever experience in the modern days.

Certainly, no steaming-handsome musketeers who fearlessly save poor ladies out of evil troubles.

Opening the pages, which I flagged up by folding their corners, I stroke my fingers over the rough paper, tracing the pencil marks he left on the pages. The question marks. The braces that enveloped paragraphs with the author's thoughts. The underlined sentences.

Never fear quarrels, but seek hazardous adventures.

Interesting idea. I can totally see this in Thomas. The way his eyes light up and glint when we are playing chess is unmistakable. Chess is his passion, and like he said last time, chess is a way to escape the monotonousness of life. Reading is my escape route.

Thomas's venturous nature is daring. I feel this quenched fire within me, trying to ignite itself. The bonfire clicks like a match being lighted, but there is not enough fuel in me, not enough heat to generate licks of flame. The tiny fire dies out as if it has been put out by the hurricane of my faraway soul.

There is no friendship that cares about an overheard secret.

This one is relatable to friends nowadays. Having friends that accuse you of something you don't hold responsibility for is annoying and tiring, especially if they have heard it from some third person.

Friends need to trust each other, even though it's so difficult today. Knowing the right places to look for friends is essential, I guess no one likes to be consumed willingly by the large hands of a wrong group of people.

All for one and one for all.

Pure nobility and loyalty statement in a voice of pithiness. Many lips have uttered this saying. Many have been inspired by it. And Thomas is no different.

From what I have learnt, just by reading this book, I feel like Thomas is in need of adventure, something new, undiscovered, fresh. Perhaps Thomas craves changes in his life, and he is inspired by the courage of D'Artagnan, the reticence of Athos, the devotion of Aramis and the liberation of Porthos.

The three musketeers are Thomas, and Thomas is three musketeers. What an irony.

Thomas's face floats in my mind, and I close my eyes to imagine him sitting in front of me, his face visible at the back of my eyelids. I can only make out his mesmerising eyes, but the rest of his face is blurred in the memory. Maybe his eyes were the thing that captivated me the most.

But why?

I don't even know Thomas, yet he feels so much closer to me than any of my university mates or even my friends. Reading through his thoughts that were left along the pages felt more intimate to me than kissing or being close to him. I felt through his mind as if I was some telepath.

I almost thought of myself as a spy, who penetrated through his walls and gathered information. Except for spies work for someone to pursue unkind goals, whilst I was completely the opposite - I work for myself and spy in benevolent goals.

That's what I liked to think of myself and make excuses.

My eyes are still closed when my mum breaks my reverie.

"You alright, Lale?", she chuckles in her warm voice.

And I have just imagined how I must be looking right this moment: sprawled on my bed, hands tucked under my head as if I own the place.

"Yeah, I was just thinking how great it would feel to be done with my coursework," I lie.

She hums. "Maybe your imagination would be more fruitful if you have actually done the work, canım," Mum says in her mocking tone and crosses the room to sit on the edge of her bed.

She pulls her phone out to check on the notification ping almost instantly, and I take this chance to admire her coal-black curls that bounce when her chest shakes with laughter.

Mum hands me her phone to show me yet another un-funny meme. I force my eyes to the screen, on which a cat is displayed. I smile, unable to refuse the fact that my Mum found it funny. I laugh a little, looking up to see her grinning in approval.

A wave of sadness rolls over me when the skin around her eyes crinkles.

"I really want to get a cat. I am sad your father is allergic to fur."

"Maybe we could kick him out or make him live in the attic," I suggest.

She pushes my shoulder, "So that the cat could have the rest of two floors?" she scratches her chin in thought, "I don't mind that. He snores so loudly, anyways," she says.

I cackle. "I know right! Gosh, I could hear him through the walls all the time through the night! Sometimes, I wonder why dad was so focused on walls, rather than anything else, if the walls are rubbish, anyways," I huff, sitting up and crossing my legs.

"That's because your father is a failed builder," she jokes.

"I hope he can't hear us or else..." I don't finish my sentence because my phone buzzes.

Our eyes meet and she stands up, "You should take it, I'll head to the kitchen."

When she disappears in the corridor, I answer my phone.

"Hey, espresso girl, you alright?"

I cringe inwardly. I am not prepared for this phone call.

"Why, yes of course. You?"

I want to slap my forehead but it's not its fault that I am so dense in the head.

"I was wondering if you had any plans for tonight?" Thomas asks in a careful tone.

"I am swamped with uni work, and the lack of sleep is overwhelming, other than that, not really" I shrug.

I can hear his fast breaths into the microphone when he laughs, "I see. So am I."

There is a pause that seems to have lasted forever, and I just wait, like an idiot, staring into the mirror that hangs in front of my dressing table.

When I speak up, he speaks, too, and we both stop, laughing awkwardly. "You go first," I say.

He takes a deep breath, "Maeve, would you like to have a walk with me? Tonight. We can have a takeaway coffee and walk on the bank."

Is that the exact moment when I should ask 'Is that a date?'?

My mouth opens in surprise but quickly snaps shut. "Yes, sure, we could do that. Shall I meet you in two hours?"

"Yes, that's great. I will be waiting for you at the cafe, then."

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Stay cool.

I put my phone down, and stare into the mirror, observing my exhausted face. I can safely say that I do not look appropriate for a date.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the ugliest of them all?"