the soft hum of the bookstore was a kind of rhythm that underscored your life. the shuffle of shoes on the old wooden floorboards, the distant murmur of the city outside, the faint rustle of pages being turned it all blended together, wrapping around you like a favorite worn-in blanket.

it was a sound you'd grown to depend on, a steady companion to the otherwise quiet existence you'd cultivated.

you weren't lonely; you loved this life.

owning a bookstore was everything you'd ever wanted. people came and went, browsing your shelves, lost in their thoughts, and then disappeared back into their worlds. and that was fine. you didn't need much.

but then there was him.

he had walked into your shop six months ago, though you could still picture the day as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

it was late afternoon, the sky outside a palette of grays and golds after a rainstorm. the bells over the door had jingled softly, and there he was his dark hair slightly damp, his glasses fogged, and a scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

he'd paused in the doorway, blinking like he'd stumbled into a secret he wasn't sure he was meant to find.

— "take your time," you'd said from behind the counter, offering him a polite smile.

he just nodded, ducking his head as if the weight of your words alone might be too much. you didn't think much of it at the time.

customers like him came and went a little shy, a little unsure but most never lingered.

but he did. it became a habit.

every few days, the bells over the door would jingle, and there he'd be, that same tentative look in his eyes.

at first, he browsed without much of a pattern, drifting between shelves like he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for. but eventually, he gravitated toward the poetry section, where he'd settle into one of the small tables tucked into the corner.

it didn't take long for you to notice the notebook he always carried. he'd sit there for hours, pen in hand, scribbling furiously onto the pages.

sometimes he'd pause, his lips moving silently as if trying out words in his head, before crossing something out and starting again. you didn't ask what he was writing.

it wasn't your business, and besides, you figured it was probably something personal perhaps class notes or sketches of ideas for some creative project. but what you didn't know was that it wasn't class notes or some generic scribbles in that notebook.

he was writing about you.

he hadn't meant for it to happen.

when he first started coming to the shop, he'd been drawn in by its quiet charm and your gentle unobtrusive presence

you were a fixture of the place, sitting behind the counter with a book in hand or meticulously organizing the shelves. but somewhere along the way, he found himself looking at you more than the books.

it wasn't just your calm demeanor or the way the sunlight hit your features in the late afternoons it was something way deeper. something about the way you seemed so comfortable in the silence, so at ease in a world that always felt too chaotic to him.

the first time he wrote about you, it was unintentional.

he'd been jotting down thoughts for a poem and realized halfway through that every line seemed to trace back to you.

he'd been mortified, at first, but the words kept coming.

so he kept writing.

every visit to the bookstore became a way to be near you, to soak in the steady calm you seemed to carry with you. and though he wanted to say something, anything, he couldn't bring himself to do it.