Chap­ter XI immers­es us in the chaot­ic ener­gy of Brook­lyn on the evening of March 13, 2014, where New York City’s streets pulse with the typ­i­cal hus­tle and bus­tle of nightlife. The local bars are packed with peo­ple escap­ing the mun­dane rou­tines of dai­ly life, each seek­ing a form of con­nec­tion or dis­trac­tion. Addie LaRue, how­ev­er, is in a slight­ly dif­fer­ent posi­tion as she nav­i­gates through the crowd­ed space of the Mer­chant bar, accom­pa­nied by Hen­ry. As the noise of the crowd swells around them, they retreat to a more seclud­ed cor­ner on the patio, hop­ing to find some peace from the sen­so­ry over­load of the city. Yet, even in this qui­eter space, the hum of life out­side seems impos­si­ble to avoid, with the con­stant clink­ing of glass­es and mur­murs of con­ver­sa­tions remind­ing them of the world that moves on relent­less­ly, regard­less of what is hap­pen­ing between them.

The exchange between Addie and Hen­ry begins cau­tious­ly, with both test­ing the waters of their bud­ding con­nec­tion. They casu­al­ly dis­cuss the mun­dane, like their back­grounds and jobs, each find­ing some­thing intrigu­ing in the oth­er’s sim­ple truths. Addie men­tions her French home­town of Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe, but omits any men­tion of the fact that her voice betrays no accent, a detail she has long since learned to avoid explain­ing. She also clev­er­ly side­steps the awk­ward­ness of her emp­ty wal­let, fab­ri­cat­ing a small lie to keep the evening flow­ing. It’s a seem­ing­ly inno­cent fib, but the nar­ra­tive shows her inter­nal strug­gle with decep­tion, espe­cial­ly in light of her ear­li­er slip about The Odyssey. Despite the dis­com­fort these small lies cause, she decides not to manip­u­late the sit­u­a­tion fur­ther, sens­ing that the con­nec­tion between her and Hen­ry, how­ev­er brief, may be more impor­tant than she real­izes.

As the evening con­tin­ues, Addie’s anx­i­ety grows, not just because of her fear of being caught in her lies, but because of the under­ly­ing fear of los­ing this con­nec­tion with Hen­ry. The anx­i­ety stems from her unique curse, which has shaped her life into one of eter­nal iso­la­tion, where every­one she meets for­gets her the moment she is out of their sight. This deep-seat­ed fear isn’t just about the pos­si­bil­i­ty of los­ing Henry—it’s tied to the hor­ri­fy­ing real­i­ty that she could be for­got­ten once again, forced to return to a life where no one remem­bers her pres­ence. The thought of return­ing to that lone­li­ness is almost too much to bear, and her vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty sur­faces as she silent­ly wor­ries about how fleet­ing this con­nec­tion may be. As Hen­ry talks with ease, unaware of the depth of her fears, Addie is left silent­ly strug­gling with the weight of the curse, con­stant­ly aware that the only thing that tru­ly ties her to the world is the ten­u­ous con­nec­tions she forms.

Their con­ver­sa­tion, seem­ing­ly light on the sur­face, is steeped with unspo­ken anx­i­eties and desires. For Addie, this moment with Hen­ry rep­re­sents a rare chance to expe­ri­ence some­thing gen­uine, a con­nec­tion where she isn’t for­got­ten, a fleet­ing glimpse of what it might be like to tru­ly be seen by anoth­er per­son. But lurk­ing in the back­ground is the con­stant, nag­ging fear that this, too, will dis­ap­pear just like every­thing else she’s ever known. The con­trast between the lone­li­ness of her immor­tal­i­ty and the warmth she feels in Henry’s com­pa­ny cre­ates a ten­sion that per­vades the scene. It becomes clear that, despite her inter­nal tur­moil, Addie is des­per­ate to hold onto this rare con­nec­tion, fear­ing that it might be the only real link she has to a world that has long since aban­doned her. This chap­ter high­lights the human need for con­nec­tion, under­stand­ing, and val­i­da­tion, as Addie nav­i­gates the com­plex­i­ties of her curse while grap­pling with the gen­uine emo­tions she feels for Hen­ry. The vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty and depth of Addie’s char­ac­ter are mas­ter­ful­ly illus­trat­ed, cap­tur­ing the reader’s heart and leav­ing them deeply invest­ed in her jour­ney.