+TYPED OUT-

+GURU-

The first person in line for the dedication was a woman in her mid-twenties or early thirties with the grumpiest man Monday had seen in her life.

"Aww, this is fantastic. I kept my fingers crossed a whole month, hoping you'd be present here. I'm a huge fan of yours; I love your books. The characters are so relatable. Your stories gave me hope. I called in sick at work to be here. I'm so happy to see you."

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Sana."

The woman turned to glare at the man with her, "what shouldn't we hear. You're the one who suggested I do so."

"Yes, I did because I thought we'd spend our time in the apartment doing you-know-what."

"Lee," the woman exclaimed and turned back to Monday, "it's not what you think. He's talking about music, I assure you," she said while she waved her hands in front of her.

Monday tried to keep a neutral expression. The couple seemed mismatched yet perfect together. One could see the man spoke for the sake of it while his eyes displayed all the affection he had for the woman.

Monday smiled, "I'm thrilled to be here too. Who should I dedicate this to?"

"Sana Gulati."

"Alright, Sana," Monday began to write. She didn't just sign; she wrote a real dedication.

"Here you go," Monday said and handed her the book.

"Aww, I hope it becomes a movie someday."

Monday winked, "so do I."

Sana turned and showed her dedication to the man.

"Happy?"

The woman nodded, and the man took her in a side hug before planting a kiss on her lips. He then turned and said, "thank you, have a good day."

The visitor didn't know, but it was when Monday saw couples like theirs that her heart burned with the wish to meet someone who would stare at her, as did Sana's Mr. Lee.

Perhaps behind the scenes, all wasn't fluff and sugar-coated, but their love for one another transpired in public.

A succession of signatures followed and long conversations. Monday distributed smiles and answered questions such as:

"Do you plan your stories?"

Monday hated saying she never did, but it seemed pretentious. She often replied she wrote the story timeline.

"How many hours a day do you write?"

"All-day long since I'm a full-time author, but I used to write after work when I had my full-time job. Sometimes till three in the morning."

"That's crazy."

"Well, I needed practice. The best way to learn how to write is to do it as often and as much as possible. I somehow feel I'm still learning."

"But you're a published author, though."

"Well, I still see to improve, and so does my editor," Monday replied.

The teen seemed to drink her words, and the gulping sound she made at the end confirmed Mondays' impression. "Do you write?" Monday asked.

"Eh," the girl squashed down the fluorescent yellow beanie on her head, "my writing sucks."

"Mine too; what matters is the story. Of course, you need to have decent grammar. Your manuscript must be comprehensible, but a good plot is what readers, editors, producers want. The rest will be polished and cleared, but the less there is to clean, the better. The only way to know if your story is as crappy as you think is to get it out there. You might be surprised."

The girl smiled, showing her complete set of braces, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Well, haven't you become an agony aunt," Ben teased.

Monday sighed, "that was me. I see myself in all these people. I know the turmoil they're in, and so do you, Ben."

"Oh, I'm in no turmoil."

Monday cocked a brow," I know, people aren't ready for you."

Again the woman affirmed her suspicion about Ben. Like her, Ben wrote romance, and unlike what people would expect of a gay man, he did not write or exploit any gay themes. He didn't even defend any rights.

The woman sometimes wished to ask if Ben refrained from doing it because he was Asian.

At age thirty-two, Ben still lived with his parents. Monday, who devoured C, J, T, and Kdrama, knew it was common for most people to get married before their thirties in Asian communities.

Ben seemed happy in his shoes, but it didn't mean he couldn't pull off a grin with a pebble under his foot.

Next up was a woman in her early forties, "I'm in love. You're gorgeous, are you married."

Monday gave Ben her stay-near stare and answered, "eh, I'm not married."

"I can't believe it. Are you dating?"

Monday's cheeks rose as she blushed, "no, I don't have a lot of time to do so in real life." Monday looked down at the cover of her book. Her heroines not only had more fun, but they all found their ideal man while she lived the romance by proxy on her book's chapters.

"Oh, how tragic, you sacrifice your love life to write for us. I want to thank you so much for bringing these men to life. Especially Noah, that Swedish man, almost had me book a flight for Stockholm to find me a Noah Letterman."

"I never thought people would appreciate him that much. It makes me sad sometimes."

The woman frowned, "really, why?"

"Because I feel as though Noah is too much. I'm afraid many expect to find someone as perfect, and they'll be deceived."

Monday spoke of her deception; no man lived up to her expectations in real life.

"What?" the woman exclaimed, making Monday blink out of her daze. "Oh, don't worry about that. Your job consists in making us believe and dream. You do that well. Who knows, there might be a Noah Letterman at this fair."

In the meantime, Kenneth left his seat after signing and grinning on multiple photos to do his first conference.

He had pre-signed his books. All he added was a short dedication, usually an inspirational quote. 

Seven books and worldwide recognition Kenneth was in that space where all doors opened without needing to say open sesame.

He came to the fair for free; his presence was his way of showing gratitude. The organizers only reserved his accommodation. BookInc welcomed him when he was no one, before the great success of his first book, Tomorrow Is Today.

Many guessed the title was from Billy Joel's song of the same name back then. Kenneth admitted his mother loved to play the music on the piano. The song and the book reminded him of the woman who told him there was no fate or coincidence, but questions, answers, and what one did with them once found.

Thus, Kenneth always sought the questions, found the answers, and decided what direction to follow. His mother died before he graduated from Trinity College in Dublin.

The woman's words followed the man everywhere, just as her traits, as he saw them every time he stared at his reflection. Dark auburn hair which became rusty orange in summer and blue eyes; the man was a carbon copy except for his chiseled jaw and a chin dimple hidden under his copper beard.

"Kenneth, you're on."