Yvette has finished her latest novel a bit earlier than she expected (she ended up skimming it because the author spent far too many words on purple prose for the love interest), and there's nothing good on TV to fill the gap, wasting time arguing with people on the internet doesn't appeal, and she actually still really wants to spend time with a story, okay. Just - a better one. One that does not have a meandering mess of a plot and a romantic plot tumor that's completely devoid of personality in either member, or literally any chemistry between them whatsoever. She needs to wash away the icky book with a better one.

She has a bike route to the nearest library memorized for exactly this reason. She calls to her mom where she's going, and then out she goes, to return this waste of a perfectly good tree and see if she can replace it with something that's actually interesting.

While browsing the shelves, something catches her eye. She turns, and thinks she spots a book that has some kind of strange shimmery cover that changes when the viewer moves. Huh. Okay, bit gimmicky for her taste, but she has to at least look at it to scoff at it properly. Her fingers only brush the spine of the book for half a heartbeat before they pass through the book entirely. It, and everything else, fades to black, and the part of Yvette's mind that is not devoted to wondering whether or not this means she has to be admitted to the emergency room notices that the inky black is lit with stars. Something - twists, like someone has reached into her chest and grabbed hold of her heart and twisted, pulling it in a direction it wasn't meant to go. It doesn't hurt, though maybe it should.

The only sensible reaction to this is to open her mouth to scream. So she starts on that. As she does, the stars fade and the black lightens and gravity twists. She has the comfort of managing to get out a scream before she hits the ground. The same observational part of her mind that noted the stars discerns that the ground feels like concrete instead of cheap, easy-to-clean carpet. What?

She pushes herself up, and tries to figure out where she fell and if anyone is nearby to maybe get her to a hospital, because this is not okay.

Yvette has finished her latest novel a bit earlier than she expected (she ended up skimming it because the author spent far too many words on purple prose for the love interest), and there's nothing good on TV to fill the gap, wasting time arguing with people on the internet doesn't appeal, and she actually still really wants to spend time with a story, okay. Just - a better one. One that does not have a meandering mess of a plot and a romantic plot tumor that's completely devoid of personality in either member, or literally any chemistry between them whatsoever. She needs to wash away the icky book with a better one.

She has a bike route to the nearest library memorized for exactly this reason. She calls to her mom where she's going, and then out she goes, to return this waste of a perfectly good tree and see if she can replace it with something that's actually interesting.

While browsing the shelves, something catches her eye. She turns, and thinks she spots a book that has some kind of strange shimmery cover that changes when the viewer moves. Huh. Okay, bit gimmicky for her taste, but she has to at least look at it to scoff at it properly. Her fingers only brush the spine of the book for half a heartbeat before they pass through the book entirely. It, and everything else, fades to black, and the part of Yvette's mind that is not devoted to wondering whether or not this means she has to be admitted to the emergency room notices that the inky black is lit with stars. Something - twists, like someone has reached into her chest and grabbed hold of her heart and twisted, pulling it in a direction it wasn't meant to go. It doesn't hurt, though maybe it should.

The only sensible reaction to this is to open her mouth to scream. So she starts on that. As she does, the stars fade and the black lightens and gravity twists. She has the comfort of managing to get out a scream before she hits the ground. The same observational part of her mind that noted the stars discerns that the ground feels like concrete instead of cheap, easy-to-clean carpet. What?

She pushes herself up, and tries to figure out where she fell and if anyone is nearby to maybe get her to a hospital, because this is not okay.

Yvette has finished her latest novel a bit earlier than she expected (she ended up skimming it because the author spent far too many words on purple prose for the love interest), and there's nothing good on TV to fill the gap, wasting time arguing with people on the internet doesn't appeal, and she actually still really wants to spend time with a story, okay. Just - a better one. One that does not have a meandering mess of a plot and a romantic plot tumor that's completely devoid of personality in either member, or literally any chemistry between them whatsoever. She needs to wash away the icky book with a better one.

She has a bike route to the nearest library memorized for exactly this reason. She calls to her mom where she's going, and then out she goes, to return this waste of a perfectly good tree and see if she can replace it with something that's actually interesting.

While browsing the shelves, something catches her eye. She turns, and thinks she spots a book that has some kind of strange shimmery cover that changes when the viewer moves. Huh. Okay, bit gimmicky for her taste, but she has to at least look at it to scoff at it properly. Her fingers only brush the spine of the book for half a heartbeat before they pass through the book entirely. It, and everything else, fades to black, and the part of Yvette's mind that is not devoted to wondering whether or not this means she has to be admitted to the emergency room notices that the inky black is lit with stars. Something - twists, like someone has reached into her chest and grabbed hold of her heart and twisted, pulling it in a direction it wasn't meant to go. It doesn't hurt, though maybe it should.

The only sensible reaction to this is to open her mouth to scream. So she starts on that. As she does, the stars fade and the black lightens and gravity twists. She has the comfort of managing to get out a scream before she hits the ground. The same observational part of her mind that noted the stars discerns that the ground feels like concrete instead of cheap, easy-to-clean carpet. What?

She pushes herself up, and tries to figure out where she fell and if anyone is nearby to maybe get her to a hospital, because this is not okay.