Henrique took the book to work again.
This time, it was on purpose. He placed it carefully in his backpack, between his laptop and notebook, as if he were afraid of wrinkling it—which was ridiculous, because the book was already battered. It had no cover, smelled like a basement, and its pages looked like they had survived at least two floods. But now it had seven words from him inside it, and that changed everything.
On the subway, he kept the backpack on his lap again. He felt the weight of the book against his thigh. He thought about opening it to reread what he had written. He didn't. He was afraid that, in daylight, with people around, the words would seem stupid. "I don't know if I should knock either." Holy shit. It sounded like a fortune-cookie line written by someone in the middle of an existential crisis.
But in the middle of the night, it had seemed right. In the middle of the night, with the light from his phone and the silence and the island in the ceiling, it had seemed like the most honest thing he'd ever done.
The problem with doing honest things in the middle of the night is that by morning, they seem embarrassing.
At the office, Lucas showed up with two coffees.
"I brought you one because you look like you need caffeine intravenously."
"Thanks."
"Seriously, man. You okay? You've been weird since Monday."
"I'm not weird."
"Yes, you are. You have that look like..." Lucas made a vague gesture with his hand. "...like you're thinking about something."
"I'm always thinking about something. It's called having a brain."
"No, you're always on autopilot. That's different. Today you're actually thinking. I can see it in your eyes."
Henrique took a sip of coffee so he wouldn't have to answer. It was way too hot and burned his tongue. Deserved.
"Is it a girl?" Lucas asked, with that shitty grin he wore whenever he thought he'd figured something out.
"No."
"A guy?"
"No."
"An existential crisis?"
"Lucas."
"Just checking the options."
"Go to work."
Lucas raised his hands in surrender and went back to his desk, but Henrique saw that he was still watching him out of the corner of his eye. Perceptive son of a bitch. It was the worst quality in a friend—to be observant enough to notice that something had changed, but not close enough for you to be able to tell him what.
Or maybe he was close enough. Maybe the problem was Henrique, who couldn't tell anyone anything. Who had unlearned how to do that four years ago and never relearned.
The day dragged by. Every hour seemed to last ninety minutes. Henrique looked at the clock in the corner of his computer screen and swore the numbers were moving more slowly on purpose, just to screw with him. He typed reports. Answered emails. Joined a call where he stayed muted the entire time and no one noticed.
At 5:30 p.m., he started putting his things away. Thirty minutes early. Lucas looked over.
"Leaving early?"
"I have to take care of something."
"What?"
"Something."
"You're the least specific person I know."
Henrique slung his backpack over his shoulder and left before Lucas could ask any more questions. Alone in the elevator, he rested his forehead against the cold metal wall and took a deep breath.
He was going to give the book back.
He was going to put it back in the book box, with his seven words written on the last page, and leave. Simple. Easy. A mechanical action. Pick up the book, put it in the box, let go, turn his back, go home, heat up some instant ramen, pretend nothing had happened.
Simple.
The subway was packed, as always at 5:30 p.m. Henrique was squeezed between a man in a suit who smelled like cigarettes and a woman carrying three shopping bags from Brás. The book was in his backpack, on his back, and he felt its weight as if it were an anvil. Every station that passed was a countdown.
Consolação. Clínicas. Faria Lima.
Pinheiros.
He got off. Rode up the escalator. Turned into the corridor.
The book box was there. Same wooden shelf, same handwritten sign. "Take a book, leave a book." There were five books today. A Machado de Assis with its spine coming unglued. A Paulo Coelho that looked new—probably nobody wanted it. A Turma da Mônica comic book that someone must have left by accident. Or as a joke. Or out of desperation.
Henrique stopped in front of the book box. Took off his backpack. Unzipped the broken zipper. Took out the book.
He just held it.
People walked by. The subway rumbled. A woman wearing headphones almost bumped into him and didn't even look. The world kept functioning, completely indifferent to the fact that Henrique Oliveira, twenty-six years old, a financial analyst, was having a silent emotional breakdown in front of a box of used books.
He opened to the last page. Read what he'd written.
"I don't know if I should knock either."
His handwriting was shaky. The graphite was faint, almost invisible. If someone wasn't paying attention, they wouldn't see it. If someone wasn't looking for it, they wouldn't find it.
But if they were looking...
He closed the book. Put it in the book box. Set its spine against the other books. Straightened it. Took his hand away.
Done.
He stood there staring at it for another ten seconds or so, as if he expected the book to do something. Glow, maybe. Or catch fire. Or have a hand come out of the book box and hand it back to him. Nothing happened. It was just a book in a wooden box in a subway station.
He turned his back. Took three steps.
Then he went back.
He picked up the book again. Opened to page 89. Looked at the "me too" written by the other person. Looked at the fingernail mark beside it. Tried to imagine the face of whoever had written it. He couldn't. It could be anyone. Any age, any gender, any life. The only thing he knew was that at some point, this person had read the same sentence he had and felt the same thing.
And that was everything. And it was a lot.
He put the book back. This time, he didn't straighten it, didn't set its spine against the others, didn't make a ceremony of it. He dropped it in and walked away before his body could change its mind again.
He didn't look back.
Lie. He looked once. Just once. At the top of the escalator, he turned his head and saw the book box down below, small, insignificant, lost in the flow of people passing without looking.
The book was there. His words were there. And now there was no way to take them back.
On the subway ride home, Henrique stood holding the pole, staring at his own reflection in the train car's dark window. The reflection looked tired. The reflection looked like someone who had just done something very brave or very stupid and still didn't know which one it was.
Probably both.
At home, he heated up the instant ramen. Ate it in front of the TV. Took a shower. Went to bed.
The nightstand was empty. No book. No weight. Nothing.
It was just a table with an alarm clock and half a glass of water.
Henrique stared at the space where the book had been for the past two nights. The wood had a rectangular moisture mark—the ghost of the book, printed on the surface. It would disappear in a few days. It would dry, and the table would go back to being just a table.
He turned onto his other side. Closed his eyes.
He couldn't sleep.
He kept thinking about who would pick up the book. Whether it would be the right person—the person who had made the markings—or just some random stranger who would flip through it, understand nothing, and throw it away. Whether his seven words would be read by someone who cared or someone who couldn't care less.
He kept thinking that he had just thrown a bottle into the ocean. Except the ocean was São Paulo, and São Paulo swallowed bottles without chewing.
At three in the morning, he picked up his phone. Opened Google. Typed: "book box Pinheiros subway station SP."
Nothing. No relevant results. No page, no post, no mention. The book box didn't exist on the internet. It was something that existed only in the real world, in a station corridor, seen only by people who passed by and looked.
He closed his phone. Placed it on the nightstand, where the book used to be.
He fell asleep at four thirty, thinking he'd done the stupidest thing of his life.
Or the most important.
And maybe—maybe—those two things were the same.