The bookstore isn't crowded, but it's alive in that quiet way—pages turning, the soft squeak of soles on wooden floors, the rustle of jackets as people lean closer to the shelves.
I didn't come here to see her.
Or maybe I did. Not consciously. But I've started tracing her orbit without meaning to. This part of town. This street. This hour.
I run my fingers along the spine of a novel I've already read, the cover worn with too many second thoughts at midnight. I'm not looking for anything new. Just… familiarity. Something constant.
And then I hear her laugh.
Muted, like she's trying not to disturb the space. Like she's holding it in her hands, careful not to let it spill too far.
I don't turn around right away. I already know it's her.
When I finally glance over, she's near the local fiction shelf. And he's there, too.
Same guy.
Same relaxed posture. Same easy presence.
He says something, and she laughs again. This time, softer. That laugh I used to think she only saved for moments we shared. Stupid, maybe, but it felt like mine. For a little while.
I stay behind a display of staff picks, pretending to read a blurb I've memorized.
She doesn't see me. Or if she does, she doesn't let it show.
He hands her a book. She shakes her head, lips curving like she's teasing him. He shrugs, and then they move together down the aisle, turning out of sight.
I don't follow.
Instead, I stare at the book in my hands, words swimming in and out of focus. The silence settles deeper here, the kind that starts inside your ribs.
A few minutes later, I catch a glimpse of her again. Alone this time, by the register, thumbing through a paperback. He's not with her.
I don't know what makes me do it, but I move toward her.
Maybe it's something about the way she's standing—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes drawn inward, like she's somewhere else. Or maybe it's the book she's holding.
"Nymphaea," I say quietly, reading the author's name on the cover.
She startles slightly, then turns. "Akash."
Her voice is a small relief. Like I'd forgotten how it sounded when it wasn't clouded by ambiguity.
"I didn't think you read her," she says, holding up the book like evidence.
"I do," I reply. "She's… different."
She nods slowly, almost thoughtfully. "Yeah. She writes like she's trying to say something no one else dares to."
"I think that's why I like her."
Zoey smiles faintly. "This one's her latest. I haven't read it yet."
We both stare at the book like it's safer than looking at each other.
"You want to grab coffee?" I ask, before I can second-guess it.
She hesitates—not because she doesn't want to, I think, but because she's weighing something invisible.
"Sure," she says. "Let me just pay for this."
At the café, we sit by the window again. Her coat draped over the chair, her hands wrapped around her cup like it holds something fragile.
She talks more than usual today.
About books. About writing styles. About the loneliness in fiction that feels too familiar.
And for a while, the silence doesn't win.
But the air between us still holds something unsaid. The kind of thing you can't name without breaking it.
"I saw you," I say, quietly. "At the bookstore. Earlier."
She looks down at her cup.
"I didn't know you were there."
"You seemed… happy," I add, immediately regretting the words.
She doesn't reply at first. When she does, her voice is careful.
"He's been around lately. Helping with some stuff."
Stuff. The vaguest truth.
I nod like it makes sense.
"You still think he's my boyfriend," she says suddenly, without looking up.
I meet her eyes.
"I don't know what to think."
She laughs, dry and short. "Good. That makes two of us."
We don't speak after that. Not because we're angry. But because something delicate has been touched and neither of us knows if it'll break.
When she leaves, I watch her disappear around the corner.
And I stay there for a while, the ghost of her voice still clinging to the rim of my cup.