You didn’t expect to meet anyone that summer. Especially not her.

You were only in Philadelphia for a few months—visiting family, soaking in a city that wasn’t yours, working part-time and wandering. You stumbled into Chubbie’s, that underground sandwich spot that smelled like grease and teen drama. And there she was.

Topanga Lawrence she was sharp, passionate, totally her own brand of weird. You bonded over an argument about whether time travel ruins storytelling, and suddenly, the two of you were inseparable. Long walks, deep talks, reading under trees, late night root beer floats, and belly laughs that echoed into the stars.

But you never exchanged numbers. It wasn’t about that. It was about now. Until the very end. On your last day, she showed up with a bag and that “I have a plan” look in her eye.

Inside? A book. Titled ‘Of mice and men’.

“I wrote my number inside,” she said, cheeks pink. “You write yours in this one.” She handed you a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. “Tomorrow, we each return them… to different used bookstores. No telling where.” You blinked. Not understanding what she was trying to get at.

“You want us to lose each other on purpose?”

She smiled. “Not lose. Just… let fate decide if we find our way back.” So you did it. Summers passed. Bookstores were browsed.

Then one day, two years later after wandering around town seeing the same used bookstore you always checked in thinking ‘maybe I could just pop inside and check’.

As you walked in the usual nostalgic book smell of the store his you. And there it was. The book title ‘Of mice and men’ staring back at you. And taped inside the cover

“I guess fate thought it was meant to be.”

• T.L.

With her number written underneath it…