THE BOOK, THE FLARE OF A GIPSY GIRL
Life felt smoother after that night. Or maybe it was just the way my heart carried itself now—lighter, like a balloon tugging against its string. As if being close to Kaelen made everything fall into place.
He slipped back into working mode, burying himself in his delayed projects with a kind of intensity that made me both admire and pity him. Two laptops open, glasses slipping down his nose, his phone buzzing every few minutes. He hardly noticed how the hours disappeared. But the simple fact that he was near lifted me. My mood rose with his presence, even when we weren't together.
And the strangest thing—our hearts seemed to tune to each other. I could sense when his shoulders were tense, even before he messaged. He knew when I was restless, sometimes reaching out just as the thought of him crossed my mind.
"Ada apa, sayang? (What is it darling?)" His voice came through the video call, soft but firm. "Don't you know you're already in my mind all the time? And what's with your message?"
"What about my message?" I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.
He exhaled dramatically, leaning back in his chair. "Babe… sayang… your message makes me think of everything I haven't done with you yet. And you know that." His mock sternness only made me grin wider. "Naughty!"
"You don't want me to be naughty?" I teased.
"I want you to be naughty when you're right here. In my arms." He leaned closer to the screen, his eyes gleaming with warmth. "Okay, babe? Take care, ya. Bye! I love you."
"Noooo… don't hang up yet!"
"I love you, sayang." He winked and ended the call before I could protest again.
COVID restrictions, though loosened, were still restrictions. Life hadn't returned to normal, not really. Working activities remained mostly online.
I clocked into the office only once a week, just for internal briefings and weekly meetings. Everything else—deadlines, presentations, endless client pitches—lived through the screen. Even my parents' monthly medical checkups were conducted over WhatsApp. The doctor was firm: no going outside. My elderly parents were not to risk it, not even for a short trip.
So I became their errand runner—the one to manage prescriptions, groceries, and all the little logistics that came with keeping them safe. At times it felt like I was carrying two lives alongside my own.
Kaelen would notice, always. We talked about our parents sometimes. His father had passed early; only his mother remained. Her age was similar to my parents. From his words I felt she was still in good spirits.
And when I tried to hide the tiredness in my voice, he caught it.
"How are your parents today, sayang?" he asked one night, his eyes narrowing slightly on the screen.
"They're fine. My dad is restless. The restrictions are hard for him."
"And for you," he added, not letting me escape.
I sighed. "I'll manage."
"What is it, babe?"
"Nothing. Just worry if I don't do enough for them."
"Please don't ever think like that, sayang. You are a good kid that your parents have right now."
I chuckled, though his words softened something inside me.
My parents, in their late seventies, were truly a loving couple, living in their own world. Since the pandemic started, I had taken my kids and moved in with them. Both my kids only had me as their parent, but they had grown up sensible. My parents adored them from the beginning, and now the boys began to return that care. Even my youngest, though autistic, was meticulous in routines—serving drinks, handing out medicine, giving light massages when asked. In his quiet way, he eased my burden.
"Don't think too much, sayang. Don't take them all on your shoulders."
His words landed heavy—not dramatic, just sincere. It amazed me how his presence, even when he wasn't physically beside me, could fold into the fabric of my everyday life—like an unseen hand at my back, steadying me as I moved through the weight of it all.
My eldest, seventeen, had just graduated high school and entered university, majoring in mathematics, chasing his dream of becoming a teacher. I never understood why teaching lit his fire, but I admired it. My youngest had chosen violin and piano—his sharp senses tuned to music. He was spoiled by his brother, but still obedient. Both of them enjoyed the pandemic more than I expected, tucked away in their own rooms, in their own worlds.
That night, as I browsed my little shelf of books, my hand paused on one that had been with me for years—hard binding, gold print, a cloth cover. An old book on palmistry.
The first book I ever read on the subject. The one that had started me down the path I now carried as a quiet profession, woven into my psychic ability.
As I opened the stiff pages, the smell of old paper rose, and my eyes landed on a faded diagram of a hand. The lines were smudged, blurred by time. And then—
A flicker.
A laugh, feminine, bold. Music. Twirling skirts. The clink of glasses. A rough, masculine hand seizing mine—smaller, softer, painted in rings. My hand.
The vision struck sharper than before, more vivid than the simple knowing I had always carried.
I had long known, without question, that I was once a gypsy girl. It was the quiet answer to why palmistry lived so naturally in me. But this—this was different. This was the first time the memory breathed.
The world around me blurred. For a moment I wasn't in my room, with the lamp casting its yellow glow. I was under canvas and firelight, the night alive with laughter and shadow. And I was her.
I inhaled sharply, then let out a long, trembling sigh, clutching the book to my chest.