Jules
Imagine this.
You’re in your favourite bookstore. Scanning the shelves where your favourite books reside, and there… hidden between the familiar spines sits a red notebook.
Imagine you’re in Seattle and it’s Christmas. You’re surrounded by people, by possibility, and the desire that, somewhere in the city, is that one person that is meant for you. You just have to find them.
How do you do that?
It just depends on the person you are.
It’s the most detestable time of the year. Seattle is a city full of holiday fanatics. Jules had spent the evening navigating the downtown crowds—holiday shoppers carrying overpriced gifts, couples sipping peppermint mochas and holding hands, and street performers singing off-key carols.
Jules was no Grinch, but she wasn’t fooled by Christmas, either. She’d grown up with the perfect facade of holiday cheer: twinkling lights, perfectly wrapped presents, and family dinners filled with laughter. That was until her parents told her they were getting a divorce; miraculously, it was during Christmas time. In that moment, two things were ruined for her. Christmas and love.
She had believed in love; her parents were what made love real to her. And then they got a divorce, and… that rollercoaster went down the tracks slightly. She still had some belief. Just because her parents’ love ended didn’t mean that her possibility of finding it ended too. That was until last year.
She’d thought she’d finally found someone worth sharing her favourite traditions with: lazy mornings over coffee, afternoons at the Elliott Bay Book Company, evenings spent hiding away at their friends’ parties. But her ex left a week before Christmas, saying his dad had gotten a job in Brazil.
That was the moment that love was truly ruined for her. Never again.
She saw herself and the relationship she once clung to in the faces of these people, the ones holding hands and smiling at each other, or the ones sneaking a quick kiss under the mistletoe. She found herself thinking of the ex that had left, and she thought: Never again.
Her hands were shoved deep into her coat pockets, and she was contemplating whether coffee would get her through the rest of the evening when—
Something—or someone—crashed into her side, nearly sending her into a decorative planter.
“Hey!” Jules shouted.
Jules steadied herself, glancing down to assess the damage. A length of glittery tinsel, the cheap, sparkly kind, now clung stubbornly to her black coat. She brushed at it with annoyance, only making it stick more.
“Season’s greetings!”
“Oh, come on, tinsel?”
And with that, she darted away, not a single apology, just a simple “Season’s Greetings.”.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking her out of her irritation. Pulling it out, she saw her mom’s name at the top of the screen.
Mom:Leaving soon. Sure you’re okay with Dad?
Jules stared at the message, her jaw tightening slightly. Unfortunately for Jules, there wasn’t an emoji, or a phrase that represented her feelings about being left behind in shitty Seattle, so her mom could spend Christmas in Hawaii.
Jules settled for a thumbs-up emoji.
Tucking her phone back into her pocket, Jules glanced over her shoulder at the carollers. The group was mid-song, swaying slightly to the melody.
“Well,” she thought to herself, “at least someone knows the words.”
The sound of voices swelled behind her as Jules walked down the damp sidewalk. The carollers had started up again, their voices ringing out across the street with unwavering enthusiasm.
“Hark the herald angels sing…”
Jules sighed, shoving her hands deeper into her coat pockets as the song drifted closer. It wasn’t that she hated Christmas music—well, not entirely. But something about the cheerfulness grated on her nerves, especially when paired with the faint jingling of sleigh bells someone in the group was shaking. It was just too much.
As the voices hit the chorus, she shook her head. “Do these people ever stop?” she thought to herself, quickening her pace.
There is one refuge from the holiday lovers.
The Elliott Bay Book Company.
Jules approached the front desk, a hardcover book tucked under her arm. The staffer working behind the counter was a man in his fifties with a scruffy beard and reading glasses perched low on his nose. He was hunched over a stack of returned books, sorting them into neat piles with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
“Excuse me,” Jules said, sliding the book onto the counter.
The man glanced up, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity.
“Hey. This book was misshelved. It’s biography, not fiction, so.” Jules said, her tone matter-of-fact.
The man picked up the book, his face showing anything but positive emotions. “Thanks,” he said. “Hey, kid. If you ever want to work here…”
Jules smiled.
“I’ll remember this very moment.” He said, his face straight, and his tone sounding more pissed off than anything else.
Jules's smile faded.
She turned away, heading toward the towering shelves in the back. Her fingers trailed idly along the spines of books as she walked, brushing against the smooth and textured covers.
Until her fingers stopped, feeling the hardback of yet another misplaced book.
Rolling her eyes, Jules made her way back to the front desk. “Hey, this was also in the wrong section, so…” she said, but the man behind the counter turned away, ignoring her.
Jules sighed, shifting her weight. She waited a moment, then gave up.
Turning away from the counter, she headed for the trolley where misplaced books were collected for reshelving. But as she reached to drop the notebook onto the pile, her eyes caught something.
In capital letters, and very neat handwriting in the middle of the cover, three words stared back at her:
Do you dare?
Her fingers paused mid-motion. Slowly, she flipped the notebook open. The first page greeted her with an inscription written in the same tidy hand:
I’ve left some clues for you.
If you want them, turn the page…
If you don’t, put the book back on the shelf.
Her fingers hovered over the edge of the page, hesitating for just a moment before she flipped it.
Jules wasn’t sure what she expected—some elaborate prank? A badly written attempt at poetry? A list of cheesy Christmas-themed riddles? She glanced around the bookshop, suddenly hyperaware of her surroundings. Nobody seemed to be watching her, no mischievous stranger lurking between the aisles to see if she’d take the bait.
Her eyes flicked back to the notebook.
So, you’ve chosen to play. A revealing choice. Shall we begin?
Jules flipped the page again, and her brow furrowed as her eyes landed on eight blank lines, each one waiting to be filled. Beneath them was a short, handwritten message:
A coded message. You can decipher it with the right books. But only if you can find them. Your first clue requires heavy reading. Look forFrench pianism.
Jules leaned against the shelf, tapping her thumb absently on the notebook’s edge. French pianism? She wasn’t exactly a music expert, and she didn’t even know if the bookshop had a music section.
Her first instinct was to grab her phone, a reflex as natural as breathing. She pulled it out of her coat pocket, her thumb already swiping to open the search app when her eyes flicked back to the notebook.
Beneath the clue, another sentence was scrawled in the same tidy handwriting:
If you need to use your phone, don’t bother playing.
Jules froze, her thumb hovering over the screen. Her lips pressed into a tight line as the words seemed to glare back at her.
She stared down at her phone, debating. This whole thing was probably some ridiculous game—a scavenger hunt dreamed up by someone with too much free time and a lot of caffeine. It wasn’t like anyone would know if she cheated. But then again, the notebook did have a way of feeling... personal.
With a laugh, Jules locked her phone and shoved it back into her pocket.
She glanced around the store, her gaze drifting over the towering shelves. There had to be a way to narrow this down. If she spent hours wandering through random sections, she’d lose what little patience she had left. The front desk felt like her best option, even if it meant dealing with him again.
Reluctantly, she walked back toward the counter, the notebook still clutched in her hand. The clerk was sitting on a stool behind the desk, sorting through a stack of bookmarks. He didn’t even look up as she approached.
“French Pianism,” Jules started, setting the notebook down in front of her.
He gave a sharp glance at the notebook before slowly meeting her eyes, his expression deadpan. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“What? Okay, but this is the information desk,” Jules said, forcing herself to sound patient. “Isn’t it, I don’t know, your job to, like, give me some information?”
He readjusted his focus then, beginning to stare at the screen in front of him, yet again ignoring Jules.
Jules exhaled, already feeling her irritation rise. “Look, if this is about earlier, I… apologise. I do. I know you would never intentionally mis-shelve a book, two in fact.”
No reply.
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t understand Did I wrong you somehow? What did I do? Is calling you out for mis-shelving a book really that serious? I’m just trying to figure out what French pianism really is. Are you taking pleasure in my suffering?”
He looks up at Jules then.
Jules closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Could you at least tell me the section—“
“I’m not allowed,” he says. “I promised her I wouldn’t discuss anything related to that.”
His eyes flickered towards the red notebook on the desk. “But since you asked, there’s a little pleasure,”
Jules blinked, taken aback. “You said her.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” Jules says. “She’s a her, and she is testing my knowledge of The Elliott Bay.”
She smirked, watching the man’s emotion change to what she thinks was a hint of regret.
“Thank you for your help.”
Jules walked away from the counter, the notebook held tight against her chest. She was acutely aware of the clerk’s gaze following her as she moved, but she refused to look back.
Okay, clue girl, Jules thought, glancing down at the notebook in her hands. If this is how you want to play it, game on.
It didn’t make sense. None of it did. She wasn’t someone who fell for puzzles or scavenger hunts or cryptic games left behind by strangers. Jules liked things straightforward, predictable, and under her control. Life was messy enough without getting sucked into someone else’s elaborate scheme.
And yet here she was, clutching this stupid red notebook and feeling... what? Excited? Curious? Both feelings were annoyingly out of character. Jules didn’t do whimsy. She wasn’t someone who saw a twinkling light and thought magic. She saw a frayed electrical cord.
She should have walked out of the bookshop and never looked back. But something about the notebook—and the woman who had clearly orchestrated this whole thing—got under her skin. There was intent behind this. The dares and riddles weren’t just random scribbles. Whoever had written them wanted to be found.
Or maybe she just wanted to mess with someone, Jules thought, a small smirk tugging at her lips. Well, congratulations. It’s working.
Jules opened the notebook again as she wandered toward the back of the store, scanning the riddle for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Your first clue requires heavy reading. Look forFrench pianism.”
She replayed the words in her mind. Heavy reading. French pianism. The obvious connection was music. Pianism meant something to do with the piano, right? That narrowed it down—sort of. Jules headed for the music section, weaving between the aisles as her boots squeaked against the polished floor.
When she reached the small music section, Jules skimmed the spines quickly, her fingers brushing against titles: The Jazz Age,Classical Harmony,Beethoven’s Legacy. No French Pianism.
She took a step back, scanning the shelves again. Nothing.
Her gaze drifted down to the notebook again. Heavy reading. She frowned, repeating the phrase silently. It felt like more than just a suggestion—it was part of the clue.
She tilted her head, staring at the shelf. Heavy reading.
Her eyes darted upward. The music section’s shelves stretched higher than most, stacked with larger volumes and hardcovers. Some of the books at the top looked massive, the kind of tomes no one ever borrowed because they’d break your back on the way home.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jules muttered, craning her neck to get a better look. At the very top, barely visible among the oversized books, was a worn title: French Pianism.
Jules spotted a step stool nearby and dragged it over, the metal scraping lightly against the floor. She climbed up, one hand on the shelf for balance as she reached for the book. It was larger than she’d expected, thick and heavy enough to make her strain as she pulled it free.
The book slipped from her fingers the moment it cleared the shelf.
The sound of it hitting the floor echoed through the aisle as the book hit the ground, its weight landing with an audible slap that made Jules wince.
Jules flipped the notebook open again, her brow furrowing as her eyes scanned the page more carefully this time. She had missed the smaller handwriting tucked beneath the main text, a set of precise instructions:
It’s a code. Page 88, seventh line, second word. Page 88, seventh line, third word.
Codes weren’t exactly her strong suit. In fact, she’d actively avoided anything resembling puzzles since childhood. Her ex had loved them—crosswords, escape rooms, even those cheesy scavenger hunts at parties—but Jules had always found them tedious. Why waste time untangling something when the answer was probably underwhelming?
And yet, here she was. She glanced down at the massive French Pianism book she had wrested from the top shelf. The weight of it seemed to taunt her, as though the book itself was in on the game.
Her fingers brushed the cover, but she hesitated. This wasn’t just about the code. It was about her—the person behind the notebook.
Who leaves cryptic notes in random books for strangers to find? Jules thought, tilting her head as if the notebook might offer her a clue about its creator. She imagined someone meticulous and calculating—someone who enjoyed watching other people squirm under the weight of their riddles. Maybe they were smug, too, sitting somewhere with a coffee, waiting to see if anyone was clever enough to play along.
Jules rolled her eyes at the thought but couldn’t deny the flicker of curiosity gnawing at her. “Okay,” she muttered, flipping open the French Pianism book and thumbing through the thick pages.
She stopped at page 88, her eyes scanning the text. It was dense, filled with words she couldn’t begin to pronounce. Her gaze dropped to the seventh line, counting carefully. Her finger hovered over the second and third word.
Are you…
“Am I what?” Jules questions.
Jules sprinted down the stairs, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and curiosity. "Fat Hoochie Prom Queen," she repeated under her breath, the words tasting equal parts absurd and clever. It was an obvious clue, sure, but that didn’t make it any less fun. Her mind immediately conjured up the bright pink cover, the kind of book that stood out unapologetically on the YA shelf. It had been one of those titles she'd passed by countless times, its boldness daring anyone not to notice it.
She couldn’t help but smile. Whoever wrote this clue knows their stuff. Definitely someone with a sense of humour, she thought. Jules loved the idea of a book scavenger hunt—it was so perfectly niche, so perfectly… her. And, admittedly, she liked the feeling of being the one clever enough to follow the trail.
But the phrase "Going to" tugged at the edge of her thoughts as she reached the bottom of the stairs. There was something about it—unfinished, open-ended, brimming with possibility. Am Igoing to... what? Go somewhere? Do something? Be someone? The ambiguity was delicious, inviting her to guess, to anticipate.
Her fingers itched to grab the next book, to see where this was leading. Part of her wondered if the clues were building up to something bigger—some final reveal, a confession, or maybe just another laugh. Whatever it was, Jules was all in.
Jules bounded back up the stairs, the weight of the notebook in her hand grounding her even as her thoughts raced ahead. Santa handing out weapons, she mused, the memory tugging at her mind like an old thread. It was an odd detail she hadn’t thought about in years, but now that it was back, she couldn’t help but laugh. Why is jolly St. Nick giving a kid a knife? It was ridiculous, really—a weirdly dark twist in an otherwise fantastical story. She hadn’t been able to let it go as a kid, and apparently, whoever wrote this notebook hadn’t either.
The way the clue anticipated her exact reaction made Jules smile. It felt personal, like the notebook was somehow tailored to her own thoughts. She loved that whoever had created this scavenger hunt clearly shared her knack for overanalysing the strangest details. Whoever wrote this has my kind of humour, she thought, flipping the page.
If you said Santa Claus arming an eight-year-old, this can go on. Jules couldn’t help but snort.
Her eyes scanned the next line: Your next clue is inside the most popular title: Sex and Sexuality. That was… intriguing. Jules paused for a moment, chewing on the clue. It was bold and unexpected, but she liked that. It made her think.
Most popular title? She tilted her head, already mentally scanning the shelves. It was easy to get swept up in the puzzle, the thrill of figuring out the connections. Each clue felt like peeling back a layer of someone’s personality, a glimpse into what they thought was clever, funny, or meaningful.
And maybe, Jules realised, that was the whole point. This wasn’t just about finding books; it was about finding something more—something hidden between the lines. The next clue waited, tucked inside some book about sexuality. Jules knew she’d find it, and with it, maybe another tiny piece of whoever had crafted this strange, wonderful game.
Jules froze at the sound of her name, her pen hovering over the page. Simone. Her stomach tightened reflexively, the way it always did when the past unexpectedly reached out and grabbed her by the collar. She turned slowly, trying to compose herself.
“Simone,” she said, her voice careful.
Simone stood there, arms crossed but not in a hostile way. More like she was shielding herself, a silent acknowledgement that this was just as awkward for her as it was for Jules.
The last time Jules had seen Simone was over a year ago, back when they were all still in the same friend group. Jules had been dating Benson then—Simone’s best friend. They’d all spent so much time together back then: late-night diner trips, movie marathons, those pointless but comforting conversations that stretched until dawn. For a while, it had felt like a little family.
And then, it ended.
The breakup with Benson hadn’t been messy, exactly, but it had been decisive. They’d gone from being inseparable to strangers in a matter of weeks. And Simone—well, Simone had always been closer to Benson. She’d picked her side, and Jules had disappeared from the group without much fanfare.
Still, Jules couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia looking at her now. Simone had been her friend once, too. They’d laughed together, shared inside jokes, and had each other’s backs when things got tough. And now? Now it felt like standing in front of someone she only half-recognised, the memories clouded by all the silence that had grown between them.
Jules shifted on her feet, the notebook still clutched in her hand. What is there to even say? she thought. She wasn’t angry with Simone, but she wasn’t sure she missed her, either. It was just… weird. Like seeing a ghost of her old life.
And yet, Simone didn’t look unfriendly. She looked cautious, yes, but there was no malice in her face. Maybe Simone was thinking the same thing Jules was: How did we let it get this way?
Still, Jules felt the weight of all the unspoken things between them pressing down on her chest. For now, all she could do was play along and try to keep it light. But the part of her that still cared—just a little—wondered if this conversation was the first step toward something new. Or if it would just remind them both why they stopped talking in the first place.
Jules listened as Simone talked, her voice carrying a casual familiarity that felt oddly out of place after so much silence.
“I’m trying to find my sister a present,” Simone said, running a hand through her hair. “She’s been dropping hints all month about needing something ‘life-changing’ to read. I figured this place would have something.”
Jules nodded, trying to match Simone’s easy tone, though her thoughts were running circles around her. She vaguely remembered Simone’s sister—outgoing, sharp-witted, and a little intimidating. “I remember her talking to me about books at the party last year,” Jules offered, the words slipping out before she could think better of it.
Simone hesitated, just for a moment. “Right. Yeah. Sorry about not inviting you to this year’s party.” She glanced down, fiddling with the strap of her bag. “I just thought… it would have been weird, you know?”
Jules forced a tight smile. “No worries. I get it.”
Simone shifted awkwardly, as if trying to gauge Jules’s reaction. Then, almost too casually, she added, “We’re having another one this year, though. You could come if you want.”
Jules blinked, caught off guard. The invitation hung in the air like an unclaimed object, heavy with implications. What is this? Guilt? Pity? Or does she actually want me there?
“Oh, uh…” Jules began scrambling for an excuse. “Actually, I can’t. My dad’s taking me on a trip tomorrow. You know, all these beautiful lights I must see.”
Simone’s expression flickered with something Jules couldn’t quite place. “Right,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Well, that’s too bad. Benson’s coming.”
Jules swallowed hard, trying to keep her face neutral. The name felt like a stone in her stomach, heavy and cold. “Benson’s back?” she said lightly.
Simone nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly but smiling, almost wistfully. “Yeah, for the holidays.”
Jules crosses her arms, revealing the title of the book that holds the clue. She looks down at the floor, uncomfortable, lost in her thoughts, until Simone’s voice cuts through the awkward silence. “Anything he should… know?” She says, eyeing the book.
The Joys of Lesbian Sex.
“Tell him I’m trying new things.”
Jules felt the awkwardness of the conversation with Simone linger in the air as she said her final goodbye. “Merry Christmas,” Simone said, her tone lighter now, almost like she was trying to wipe away the tension.
As Simone walked away, Jules felt a quiet sense of relief wash over her. She didn’t know why it felt like such a big deal—she wasn’t expecting fireworks or a resolution—but there it was. The conversation was over, and she could breathe again. She turned back to the notebook, needing a distraction, a new focus.
Her fingers traced the edges of the next page, flipping it carefully. Her eyes caught the first line:
The fact you were willing to stand out in the open with a book called The Joys of Lesbian Sex bodes incredibly well for our future.
Now, a few rules...
The words were unexpected, but the humor in them immediately drew her in. She read, her brow furrowing slightly at the odd instruction:
If you are not an adult, please return the book to the shelf.
The phrase made her chuckle under her breath, but it was the next line that caught her attention.
If you have use for the manual in your hands, I completely support that, love is a spectrum (which I am proudly on), so if girls aren’t on yours, please return the notebook to the shelf.
Jules paused. There was something so unashamedly open in that line. It felt like the writer was speaking directly to her, acknowledging her feelings without judgment. She exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips. Love is a spectrum, the words echoed in her mind. It wasn’t just a message—it was a reminder that she was seen, understood.
She flicked her eyes down to the next part.
And finally, if you have made it this far, you're obviously clever. So I want to know...
Her heart skipped a beat as she turned the page, her fingers brushing over the edge in anticipation. The next thing she saw wasn’t more writing but a piece of paper falling out of the notebook. She picked it up, unfolding it carefully, wondering if it was part of the puzzle.
The words on the paper were simple but direct.
Are you brave?
Jules blinked, feeling a sharp stir of something deep inside her. Brave? The question felt loaded, somehow. She took a deep breath, the question hanging in the air like a promise. Maybe I am, she thought quietly. Maybe I can be.
She tapped the mic, the sound sharp and unnecessary in the sudden silence. “Hello,” she said, her voice coming out a little more shaky than she’d wanted. A few people glanced up from their browsing, some curiously, some just waiting for her to finish whatever absurd thing she was about to do. “Sorry to interrupt your shopping, and uh, browsing,” she added awkwardly, her face flushing. “But I’ve been asked to share a dramatic reading.”
The words felt absurd as soon as they left her mouth. This is so cheesy. What am I doing?
She took a deep breath. “Oh, and apologies to Joni Mitchell.”
That got a few curious looks, but Jules didn’t care. She pulled the paper out, her hands suddenly steadier, and began to read, her voice stronger now as the first few lines of River filled the space.
“It's coming on Christmas, they're cutting down trees...
Putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy and peace.
Oh, I wish I had a river that I could skate away on.”
The words wrapped around her, the melancholy beauty of the song anchoring her. There was something so comforting in it, like it was meant to be shared, to be felt deeply and raw in this moment. The rhythm of the song rolled from her mouth almost effortlessly, her initial nerves fading. Her thoughts began reeling:
Maybe you though that this would scare me off. But I love this song. And if you chose it, that means you love it, too.
What is it about this song that you love? Is it the complexities of love and regret? Does it resonate with you? The bittersweet pull of memory and the ache of wanting to move on while still holding onto the past?
Are you here now?
Did you turn up to see if I really was brave?
She felt that question, heavy in her chest. The idea of someone—anyone—watching her, wondering if she had the courage to do something so small but so big at the same time.
“Oh, I wish I had a river.
I’m so hard to handle.
I’m selfish and I’m sad.
And now I’ve gone and lost the best baby I’ve ever had.
Oh, I wish I had a river to skate away on.
It’s coming on Christmas”
Jules barely had time to say the next few lyrics before the man from the desk unplugged the mic. The sudden silence was jarring, and she turned to him, her cheeks burning.
“Whoa, hey! Hey!” she exclaimed, clutching the paper tightly, her voice louder than she intended in the quiet.
The man raised a hand to stop her. “I’m putting you out of your misery.”
“What are you doing? It’s not the end of the song.”
The man walks towards her. “Got what you needed.”
Jules frowned in confusion.
“The last two words of the message? You just said them.”
Her mind reeled for a moment as the pieces clicked into place. She grabbed her pen, immediately opening up the notebook, revealing that the eight-word question she’d been unknowingly assembling with each clue, each moment of bravery, was finally clear:
Are you going to be lonely on Christmas?
She turns the page.
So, here we are. What happens next is up to you.
Leave a message telling me how this time of year makes you feel,
If I like your answer, you just might hear from me.
If you’re not scared.
Jules read the words again, her eyes lingering on the page:
How does this time of year make me feel? Jules thought bitterly. Tired. Anxious. Lonely, if she was honest about it. She hated the forced cheer, the endless parties where everyone pretended everything was perfect, the cold that crept under her skin and never left.
Her fingers tightened around the notebook. She needed to know who this person was—who could write something that made her feel both exposed and seen at the same time. Before she could talk herself out of it, she strode up to the information desk.
“Who is she?” Jules said, her voice firm. She held up the notebook.
The man didn’t even blink.
“Even if I could tell you,” he said, his tone calm but final, “I wouldn’t.”
He’s pauses, then continues. “You’re supposed to put that back so someone else can play.”
Jules stared at him, the weight of the words pressing down on her. Put it back? After all this? No way.
A smile rose to her face, and she made her decision in an instant. Without another word, she turned and walked away, the notebook clutched tightly to her chest.
“Hey!” the man called after her, but she didn’t look back.
As she pushed open the bookstore door, Jules felt a strange mixture of defiance and exhilaration.
“I’m not scared, Clue Girl,” Jules thought, a smirk playing on her lips. “I’m hooked.”
Jules pushed open the door to the pizza place, the familiar aroma of melted cheese and warm dough hitting her. She barely had time to take it in before a voice rang out from behind the counter.
“Hey! You’re going on a trip, and you didn’t tell me?”
Jules froze mid-step, spotting Lucas Adams leaning casually against the counter. He was dressed in his usual effortless style—a plain hoodie and jeans—but his grin was as bright as ever. Lucas was the kind of guy who could make anyone feel at ease, his charm almost annoyingly effortless. He was funny, a little too confident for his own good, and occasionally, well... not the sharpest tool in the shed. But he was Jules’ friend, and right now, that made him both a comfort and a complication.
“How’d you—” Jules started. “Oh, Simone.”
Lucas nodded, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing grandly like he was about to deliver some life-altering news. “Yeah, she texted me, said you were acting weird—even for you.”
Jules groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Did she say anything else?”
Lucas waggled his eyebrows as he leaned against the counter, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, nothing too juicy. Just so you know, though…” He paused for effect, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I’m a total ally.”
Jules couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing, shaking her head at him. “I appreciate that, Lucas,” she said through her laughter, “but, to be honest, I thought it was obvious.”
Lucas feigned offense, clutching his chest like she’d just wounded him. “Obvious? Jules, you wound me. I was going for a heartfelt moment here.”
Still chuckling, Jules waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for your service, Adams. But for the record, I’m not going on a trip.”
Lucas tilted his head, looking genuinely curious.
Jules hesitated for a moment, debating how much to say. Finally, she shrugged, deciding to keep it simple. “I’m just trying to avoid seeing anyone.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Even me?”
Jules smirked, crossing her arms. “No, not you. I need you for the pizza.”
Lucas grinned, straightening up. “That’s what I thought. Priorities, Jules. You’ve got good ones.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips. Lucas had a way of making everything feel a little less complicated, even when her head was spinning. For now, pizza and Lucas’s antics were exactly what she needed.
Lucas grinned as he slipped back behind the counter, effortlessly grabbing a pizza box to fold while he talked. “So, what’s the Adams clan doing for Christmas this year?” Jules asked, leaning against the counter with a casual smile.
Lucas’s face lit up. “It’s going to be awesome. My aunt’s bringing a ton of food—she does these insane tamales every year—and the whole family’s coming over. It’s going to be chaos, but, like, the good kind. You know?”
Jules nodded, her smile softening. “Sounds fun. You gotta let me know when you open your present.”
Lucas paused, narrowing his eyes at her. “Why?”
“Because,” Jules said nonchalantly, glancing at the stack of napkins on the counter like it wasn’t a big deal. “I talked to your mom about it.”
Lucas’s jaw dropped dramatically. “You what? Jules! What did you do? What is it? Give me a hint.”
Jules smirked, tilting her head as if she were considering it. “Hmm… Nope.”
“Come on!” Lucas groaned, leaning across the counter in exaggerated desperation. “Jules, I need to mentally prepare. Is it embarrassing? Is it funny? Did you buy me socks?”
“Why would I consult your mom about socks?” Jules said, rolling her eyes but laughing.
Lucas pointed a finger at her. “You’re avoiding the question. That means it’s either genius or horrifying, and I’m going to spend the next three days spiraling.”
“Good,” Jules teased, standing up straight and patting the counter. “A little anticipation is good for you. Builds character.”
Lucas groaned again, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. “You’re the worst.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jules said, waving him off. “Just remember to text me. I want to know what you think when you see it.”
Lucas sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if it’s a prank, I’m disowning you as a friend.”
Jules just grinned, turning toward the menu board. “Can’t wait.”
Jules pulled the red notebook from her bag, her fingers brushing over the slightly worn cover. She opened it carefully, her eyes drawn to the words that had been haunting her since she left the bookstore:
Are you going to be lonely on Christmas?
The question hit her again, just as hard as the first time. It was simple, direct, and somehow managed to cut right to the core of something she hadn’t let herself think too deeply about. Jules hated Christmas for a reason—it always left her feeling like an outsider looking in. Everyone else had traditions, big family dinners, or someone to share the magic with. And her? It was just her and Dad, trying not to step on each other’s toes while pretending the absence of Mom didn’t matter.
Am I going to be lonely? she thought, biting her lip. The answer was obvious. Yes, she was. And this mysterious Clue Girl seemed to know it, even without knowing her.
“What’s that?” Lucas’s voice cut through her thoughts like a jarring alarm. She snapped the notebook shut and looked up to see him staring at her, pizza cutter in hand and a teasing grin on his face. “You got a diary or something?”
Jules rolled her eyes, shoving the notebook back into her bag. “No, it’s not a diary. I found it at the bookstore. You don’t recognise this handwriting or anything, do you?”
“No clue who it is,” he said, stuffing the pizza slice into his mouth. Then, with a shrug and a sly grin, he added, “But it’s definitely a girl’s handwriting. That’s girl cursive.”
“Okay, well it’s not Simone’s right?” Jules asks.
“Nope, why?”
Jules laughs slightly, “Just trying to rule out suspects.”
Jules smirked but ignored the jab. “It had these clues in it. I’ve been... following them, trying to figure out who the girl is that wrote them.”
Lucas leaned forward, his grin turning mischievous. “Oooh, you like her.”
Jules froze, narrowing her eyes at him. “What? First of all, we’re adults, don’t say “Oooh, you like her.” Second of all, I don’t even know her.”
“Which makes it even weirder that you do,” Lucas says. “I haven’t heard you talk about a potential love interest since…”
“You can say his name, Lucas. He’s not Voldemort or some other evil character.” Jules says.
Lucas hums, “Well, actually, you’re supposed to say Voldemort’s name. Then he has no power.”
Jules scoffed, crossing her arms and giving Lucas a pointed look. “Okay, let’s get one thing straight. I don’t know this girl. I mean, I don’t even know if I want to know her. I just... want to figure out who she is. That’s it.”
Lucas smirked, clearly not buying her explanation. “Uh-huh. Sure. Totally not personal at all.”
“It’s not,” Jules said firmly, making her way to the shelves that contained a bunch of movies.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Okay, so here’s what we do. We run a secret mission. A sting operation. Very cloak-and-dagger. You write in the notebook telling her to call for two pizza’s, and boom—we have her name.”
Jules blinked at him, incredulous. “What? That’s your grand plan? Call for pizza?”
“Exactly,” Lucas said, nodding like it was the most brilliant idea ever. “Everyone gives their name when they order a pizza. We just have to hope she’s hungry.”
Jules sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Lucas, that’s... not how this works.”
“Why not?” Lucas said, gesturing to the pizza counter behind him. “It’s foolproof! She gets a pizza, you get a name. It’s basically the perfect plan. You just don’t appreciate my genius.”
Jules gave him a flat look, grabbing a case from the shelf and coming back to the counter. “And if this mystery girl doesn’t call for a pizza?”
“Then I keep the pizza,” Lucas said with a shrug, biting into another slice. “Win-win for me.”
Jules rolled her eyes, but a small laugh escaped her. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you,” Lucas said with a mock bow.
Jules stepped back from the counter as Lucas handed her a box. “What’s that?” He says, gesturing at the movie in Jules’ hand.
“A movie about murder.” Jules said, her tone flat as she grabbed the pizza. “Thanks for the pizza, Lucas.”
Jules pushed open the door to her dad’s apartment, the air inside still and quiet. She set the pizza box down on the coffee table, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch. The apartment felt empty, but that was the way she wanted it.
Her mom thought she was spending Christmas with her dad. Her dad assumed she was with her mom. And her old friends? Well, thanks to a little strategic misinformation, they all believed she was out of the city, off on some grand holiday adventure. Jules let out a small laugh at that. Solitude, she thought, settling onto the couch, is my Christmas gift to myself.
She grabbed a slice of pizza and pressed play on the remote, the screen lighting up with the opening credits of some old holiday movie. The cheerful music and overly enthusiastic actors felt surreal against the silence of the apartment. Jules didn’t really care about the plot; it was just something to fill the space, to keep her from being alone with her thoughts.
But it didn’t work for long.
Her mind wandered, and before she could stop it, she was thinking about Benson.
Benson. Her first boyfriend, her first love, her first everything. The boy who had somehow managed to make her feel like the most important person in the world and the smallest all at once.
She could still remember their last Christmas together. They’d gone to a party with their group of friends, everyone crammed into someone’s too-small living room, drinking cheap cider and singing off-key carols. But they closed themselves off, finding their way into someone’s bedroom, laying down and talking about the weirdest of things. Until, he said: I’m going to miss you.
That led to the confession of Benson eventually telling Jules, he’d be leaving with his Dad to go to Brazil. And painfully admitting that he was sorry, but they both knew that this wouldn’t last forever.
Except, Jules didn’t know that. Why would she? Yeah, she knew his Dad moved around a lot, but she never knew that the time with Benson would be so… limited.
And when things ended—messily, painfully—it had taken their entire friend group with it.
Jules bit her lip, staring at the pizza box as the memories washed over her. She hadn’t thought about Benson in a while, not like this. But something about the season—the cheer, the endless reminders of togetherness—brought it all rushing back.
Would it have been different if we’d lasted? she wondered. Maybe she wouldn’t be here, alone, dodging her friends, her family, and the holiday itself. Maybe she’d be somewhere else entirely, holding someone’s hand and laughing at some dumb holiday tradition.
But that wasn’t her reality. She was here, alone, eating pizza and watching an incredibly depressing movie she didn’t care about. And, surprisingly, that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. At least this time, she wasn’t pretending to be happy for anyone else’s sake.
Jules sighed, pulling the notebook out of her bag and opening it to a brand new page. Now, it was her time to write to Clue Girl.
Do I dare?
Not for just anyone, but apparently, Clue Girl, I dare for you.
You started this off by writing someone clues, that someone has just somehow happened to be me. I admire your words and your choice of music. I won’t deny that I wasn’t intrigued by your quest. Your clues were unlike any other, and I applaud your attempt at trying to scare me off with a dramatic reading.
You asked me how this time of year made me feel. For some reason, I’m assuming that you are a kindred spirit, so I know (or at least hope) you’ll understand me when I say:
It’s the most detestable time of the year.
I hate the cheer, the decorations, the carolling. And I’m hoping you do too.
However, it is now my turn to be the clue giver.
You wanted someone to play along with you, well, I’m playing. But only if you do, too.
I want to continue this, Clue Girl, so I instruct you to do these two things:
- Order two pizza’s from Adams’ House.
- Place this notebook on the shelves in the video section
Enjoy, Clue Girl.
- Notebook Girl
The smell of baking dough and melted cheese filled the air as Jules leaned against the counter at Lucas’s pizza place, her fingers drumming absently on the surface. Lucas stood behind the counter, tossing a pizza base with practiced ease.
“So,” Jules began, almost hesitantly, “I wrote in the notebook.”
Lucas glanced up, eyebrows raised. “You wrote in it?” He smirked, clearly intrigued. “What did you say? Like, ‘Hey, Clue Girl, you’re cute, let’s meet?’”
Jules groaned. “No, Lucas. I gave her a clue. Instructions, actually.”
Lucas abandoned his pizza-making, giving her his full attention now. “Oh, this is getting good. What kind of instructions?”
“I told her to leave the notebook on the shelf with the movies,” Jules said, folding her arms. “I want to see if she’s brave enough to follow my clue. It’s only fair, right? She’s been making me jump through hoops this whole time.”
Lucas tilted his head, studying her. “So... you want to find out who she is without her finding out who you are?”
Jules nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Lucas grinned, pointing a flour-dusted finger at her. “So what you’re saying is... sting operation.”
Jules rolled her eyes so hard she was sure they might get stuck. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Sting operation.”
Lucas beamed, clearly delighted. “I knew you’d come around. This is going to be great. We’ll set up surveillance, stake out the bookstore, maybe bring snacks—oh, wait, we already have pizza!”
“Lucas,” Jules interrupted, holding up a hand. “We’re not doing anything. It’ll be you. I can’t be here when she comes, okay? It’ll ruin the surprise.”
“You’re boring,” Lucas said, waving her off, but the mischievous twinkle in his eye told her he wasn’t done. “But fine. I’ll look out for her.”
Jules sighed, exasperated but unable to suppress a small smile. “You’re the worst, you know that?”
“And yet, here you are,” Lucas said with a dramatic shrug. “Relying on my brilliant mind for your big mystery.”
Jules grabbed a slice of pizza from the counter and took a bite, hoping it would shut him up. “If you call it a sting operation one more time, I’m taking this whole box and leaving.”
Lucas laughed, leaning back against the counter. “Fine, fine. But admit it—you’re having fun.”
Jules hesitated, the slightest grin tugging at her lips. “Maybe. A little.”
“Exactly,” Lucas said, triumphant. “Now, let’s catch this Clue Girl of yours.
“How did you miss her?!” Jules asked, her voice a mix of frustration and disbelief. She tapped her fingers on the counter, clearly annoyed.
Lucas ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to explain himself. “It was the lunch rush, Jules. You know how it gets around here. I had like five orders to fill all at once.”
Jules crossed her arms, clearly not buying it. “That’s your excuse? You’re telling me you missed her because of lunch rush chaos?”
Lucas nodded sheepishly, looking toward the door. “I’m sorry, okay? But it’s true.”
Jules sighed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you didn’t see her. What about the security cameras? We could’ve checked—”
“What security cameras?!” Lucas interrupted, raising his eyebrows. “This is a pizza place, Jules, not some high-tech espionage lair.”
Jules’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned in closer. “You said this was a sting operation, Lucas.”
“Yeah, but this is also just a pizza parlour,” he said with a shrug, a little defensive. “She left you a message.”
Jules stared at the message in the notebook, her breath catching slightly.
Nice try. You sent me into a trap.
Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes quickly flicked up to Lucas, a mix of confusion and disbelief painting her face.
“How could she possibly know that?” She had only just thought it. She hadn’t said it aloud. And yet here it was, the words written down in front of her as if the mystery girl had somehow been in on her thoughts.
Lucas was leaning against the counter, looking increasingly amused by her reaction. “Yeah, it gets worse. Like, way worse.” He tapped his fingers on the counter with a grin, clearly enjoying the dramatic pause.
Jules’s gaze flicked back to the notebook, her eyes scanning the rest of the message:
I’m flattered, mystery girl, but I’m not so easy to catch. If you want to know more about me, you’ll have to do it through this notebook. And if you want my name, you’ll have to earn it... with a dare.
Jules felt her pulse quicken. A dare? Her mind raced as she processed the words. This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was something different, something deeper. Whoever Clue Girl was, she was playing by her own rules, and Jules was already in too deep to back out now.
But how could she possibly earn her name? And more importantly—why did the idea of the dare spark something inside her? Something that felt like a challenge she didn’t want to back down from.
Jules closed the notebook slowly, feeling a strange mixture of frustration and excitement. This isn’t how I thought it would go, she thought, biting her lip. I didn’t expect her to play along this much.
Her mind kept returning to that phrase—I’m not so easy to catch. Was she teasing her? Or was there something more to it? Jules felt the pull again, stronger this time. The more she read, the more she wanted to know.
Jules and Lucas stood outside Macy’s, the neon lights from the holiday decorations casting a glow on their faces. Lucas was nervously shifting from foot to foot, clearly uneasy about what was about to happen.
“Maybe this is a bad idea,” he said, his voice laced with hesitation. “You don’t even know the girl. I’m really starting to think it’s a terrible idea.”
Jules glanced at him, rolling her eyes with a mixture of exasperation and determination. “No, Lucas,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “That’s the thing. I do know her.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow, confused. “What? How?”
Jules took a deep breath. “When I read the notebook, her words, it’s like I can hear her voice. She’s sarcastic, extremely. And sophisticated. She’s... real. I know her, even if I don’t know her name.”
Lucas looked like he was about to protest again, but he paused, seeing the determination in her eyes. “Alright, fine. But please—don’t freak out, okay? Just... be nice to him.” He gestured toward the giant Santa display in the distance, where the line of kids and families stretched long, the air thick with holiday cheer.
Jules gave him a sideways glance. “Be nice to him? Who are we talking about here, Santa or the elf?”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “Both. They’re the ones who could get you into trouble.”
Jules shrugged, her nerves mixing with excitement. “I can handle it.”
And so, they ventured inside, weaving through the bustling crowd and heading towards the “Meeting Santa” area. Jules kept her eyes peeled, watching for any sign that Clue Girl was playing her own game here, perhaps leaving another message, or—better yet—appearing in person.
As they approached the set-up, complete with velvet ropes and a large cushioned chair, Lucas nudged her. “Remember, no yelling. And keep your sarcasm in check, alright?”
“I’m not that bad,” Jules said, though she couldn’t help but smirk.
It took five minutes for Jules to be thrown outside, threatened with a ban (that legally they could not give her), and also told that she was on the naughty list. But hey, at least she got Santa’s hat, right?
She stood outside Macy’s, clutching the Santa hat in her hands. Her heart was still racing from the fiasco inside, her cheeks burning with the memory of being unceremoniously kicked out by an overly dedicated elf.
Okay, Clue Girl, she thought, her grip tightening on the hat. I did your dare, and it only cost me my dignity. So let’s find out what I earned.
She began examining the hat, turning it over in her hands, searching for something—anything. A clue. A message. A sign that this hadn’t been for nothing. She ran her fingers over the soft red fabric and the white fluff at the brim, flipping it inside out in frustration.
“What?” she muttered under her breath. Her voice grew louder, tinged with exasperation. “Come on. You have got to be kidding me. I did the dare. What did I do wrong? I did everything you asked and I still don’t know your—”
She stopped mid-sentence, her breath catching as her fingers brushed against something smooth and cool beneath the white trim. She turned the hat over, holding it up to the light, and there it was: glittery writing, faint but unmistakable, shimmering underneath the fluff.
Mika.
Jules blinked, staring at the name for a moment as it settled into her mind. “Mika,” she said aloud, the sound of it foreign but oddly familiar on her tongue.
Her name is Mika, she thought, the realization hitting her like a jolt. The girl she’d been chasing, the girl who had left all these clues, the girl who had dared her into one embarrassing escapade after another—she had a name now. And somehow, that made her real in a way she hadn’t been before.
Jules ran her thumb over the glittery letters, her heart fluttering. She had done it. She’d earned the name. But now, another question burned in her mind: Who is Mika?
The game wasn’t over, not by a long shot. But for the first time, Jules felt like she was one step closer to figuring out the girl behind the notebook. And she couldn’t stop the small, triumphant smile creeping onto her face.
The wind carried the faint sound of carollers as Mika darted through the bustling holiday crowds, her scarf flapping behind her. She was almost there when she heard someone from the doorway of a nearby store call out.
“Mika! Mika!”
She turned to see one of the owners waving frantically. “Thank god you’re here.”
“Is it bad?” Mika asked, already knowing the answer but hoping for a miracle.
“Without you, they’re terrible,” the shopkeeper said with a groan.
Just as she rounded the corner to where the group was gathering, her shoulder collided with someone. She stumbled, accidentally leaving tinsel over this strangers coat, instinctively blurting out, “Seasons greetings!”
“Hey! Seriously?” the woman she’d bumped into snapped.
Mika ignored it, and continued making her way to her carolling group.
Finally reaching them, Mika was greeted with cheers and relief. “Mika! We’re saved,” one of her friends exclaimed dramatically, throwing their hands up in gratitude.
“I was getting these,” Mika said with a grin, pulling a bundle of tinsel from her bag and handing it out like an emergency kit.
Once the tinsel was around their necks, her friend clapped her hands. “Alright, Joy to the World, third verse. We all need help. Badly.”
The group huddled closer, and Mika led them into song, her voice strong and clear as they harmonized, shakily at first, but growing louder and more confident with her guidance.
Across the street, Jules stood in the crowd, hands in her pockets, watching the carollers. Her gaze wandered over the group until it settled on a girl directing the song with effortless ease. Her voice stood out, rich and warm, her presence drawing everyone in like she belonged in this perfect holiday scene.
“Well, at least someone knows the words,” Jules thought, as the carollers stumbled their way through the song’s more complicated verses.
For a second, their gazes locked.
Jules felt her chest tighten, though she didn’t know why. She gave a smile to the girl, and walked away before the song ended. She didn’t know it, but she had just locked eyes with Mika.