If you ask Myka Bering whether she's ever been in love, she’ll pause for a moment. And if you're in her house, her gaze will flick to the ever-present books; you might notice the author's name.
She'll gesture to the bound volumes lying well-thumbed on the table. "That's the most important one," she'll say, her smile not quite touching her eyes.
You’ll think she's talking about literature, and wonder why she looks so sad.
And you’ll never quite muster the courage to ask her who Helena is, or why she has a photo of her beside her bed.