The morning air is sharp, cutting through my jacket as I step outside, but it doesn't matter. The chill doesn't touch me, not really. There's something heavier, deeper within me—a kind of weight that makes even the sun feel distant, unreachable. I should feel something—anything—but I don't. Instead, there's just a silence in my chest, a void I can't fill no matter how many cups of coffee I drink or how many steps I take.
I find myself walking aimlessly, my feet taking me wherever they want, as though they know something I don't. I've been doing that a lot lately—letting my mind drift, unable to focus on anything in particular, my thoughts perpetually circling back to him. To him.
It's ridiculous. Every time I try to tell myself to stop thinking about him, to leave things be, my mind betrays me, pulling me back into those quiet, charged moments we've shared. Like yesterday. Like the words we never fully said, the ones left hanging in the space between us.
The way his eyes had followed me as I left, the unspoken question in his gaze. Did he feel it too? That strange kind of tension, like something was about to break, but neither of us was ready for it?
I stop walking abruptly, the thought catching me off guard. There's a small bookstore ahead, one I've passed countless times but never actually entered. Something pulls me in, something inside my chest urging me to go in, even though I know it won't make anything better.
I push the door open and the familiar scent of old paper and ink wraps around me, a comfort, but also a reminder of how much I hide within these walls. Shelves tower over me, filled with stories that are never truly mine, but always just out of reach. I let my fingers graze the spines of the books as I wander, searching for nothing, finding everything.
But it's not the books that draw my attention. It's the sound of footsteps behind me, the unmistakable presence of someone who feels like both an anchor and a storm.
I don't need to turn around to know it's him.
He's here.
I let out a breath, a quiet exhale, and let the moment stretch between us like an unspoken promise. I don't turn. I don't look, even though I know he's standing there, just a few feet away. I can almost hear him breathing, feel his gaze resting on me, but it's different today. There's something more in the air now, something sharper, more delicate. Like the moment before a storm, when everything seems to hang on the edge of a fragile thread.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he says, his voice low, tinged with something I can't quite place.
I finally turn, my hand still resting lightly on the book I was pretending to examine. He's standing there, just outside my reach, eyes watching me with that same intensity I've come to recognize. His hair is messier than usual, a few strands falling into his eyes, but it only makes him look more… real, for lack of a better word.
There's an almost imperceptible pause before he speaks again. "I thought I might find you here."
I raise an eyebrow, though the gesture is more for myself than for him. "Is that so?" The words are calm, casual, but beneath them, I feel the flutter of something I can't ignore.
He takes a step closer, and I wonder if he's aware of the way my heart picks up pace. How his presence always does that to me. "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday," he admits, his voice softer now, like he's trying to piece something together. "About things that linger."
I look down at the book in my hands, avoiding his gaze, if only for a moment. I'm afraid if I look at him for too long, I might say something I'm not ready to.
"It's true," I say, my voice quieter than I intend, "some things don't fade. They just… stay with you."
The words feel too heavy to say out loud, and yet, I say them anyway. But he doesn't respond right away. He's just there, standing close enough for me to feel his warmth, but still keeping his distance. It's strange. I don't know if he's waiting for me to explain more, or if he's trying to make sense of it himself. Either way, I can't stop the quiet storm brewing between us.
"I think you're right," he says after a long pause. "But… do you think everything can stay, even if it's not meant to?"
I meet his gaze then, and for the first time, I notice the flicker of something in his eyes—a doubt, maybe. A question he's not sure he wants answered, but is too afraid not to ask.
I swallow, unsure of how to respond. I could give him the easy answer—the one that sounds nice, that doesn't make anyone uncomfortable. But that would be a lie. I don't want to lie, not anymore. Not to him.
"I don't know," I say finally, my voice soft but steady. "Maybe some things are meant to fade. Maybe it's the things that stay that scare us the most."
There's a long silence between us, and I can feel him trying to read me, trying to understand what's beneath the surface. His eyes flicker to the book in my hands again, and I realize it's the one we both like, the one we've never spoken of directly, but we both know the weight of it. The story that's not quite finished, the story we're both trying to write with our words and our silences.
For a moment, we're just two people in a bookstore, caught in the same moment, unsure of what to do next.
"I guess we're both still figuring things out," he says, breaking the silence. It's not a question, but a statement—one that feels like it carries the weight of everything we haven't said yet.
I nod slowly, feeling the truth of his words settle between us. It's strange how something so simple can carry so much meaning. We're not ready yet, and maybe we never will be. But it's enough for now.
"I'll see you later," I say, my voice almost an afterthought, the words slipping out of me without a second thought.
And with that, I walk away, leaving him standing in the aisle, still holding onto the tension between us, the unspoken words we both carry like a secret neither of us is ready to let go of.