Rain lashed against the windows of Elara's apartment, mirroring the turmoil brewing inside. She stared at the book, its cover featuring a picture of her as a young girl, beaming at the camera. “Elara: A Life in Shadows,” the title read. She hadn't authorized anything like this. A journalist, someone she vaguely remembered meeting at a work event, had somehow wrangled her entire life story. The pages smelled of fresh ink, yet felt stale, filled with details of her solitary existence. A small frown played on her lips as she reached for the phone, intending to call the publisher. But what would she even say?
Her apartment was her refuge, a carefully curated space reflecting her preference for solitude. A single plant, a resilient fern, sat on the windowsill, its fronds reaching for the dim light. She’d always preferred the company of books and plants to other people. The thought of all of this, all her private moments, being laid bare for strangers to peruse made her stomach churn.
The journalist, as if summoned by her thoughts, had written a lengthy section about her routines. He spoke of how she ate her breakfast cereal at exactly 7:15 every morning, and how she spent her evenings reading, and knitting, the click of the needles the only sound in her otherwise quiet existence. Elara felt a blush creep up her neck, a sensation she hadn’t felt in months. She needed to know how he got all of this information.