I had a writer's seminar.
I almost didn't go.
I didn't want to go.
I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at the crumpled event flyer that had been sitting on my dresser for weeks , Local Writers' Panel: Unblocking the Heart. The title made me cringe. The heart was the very thing I'd been blocking, burying, avoiding under neat lines and half-finished sentences. What could I possibly say on a panel like that?
The truth was, I wasn't afraid of the stage or the lights. I was afraid of being seen ... really seen. Of showing up in a room full of writers who made their pain into poetry while mine still lived raw in the back of my throat.
But guilt is a stubborn kind of fuel, and curiosity… even worse.
So I dressed quietly, pulled my curls into a loose knot, and told myself I'd just listen. Not speak. Not share. Just… exist quietly in the back row, like punctuation at the end of someone else's story.
The venue was a converted bookshop downtown. Warm wood shelves, string lights coiled between paperbacks, and the faint smell of ink and memory. It was intimate, too intimate, the kind of place where your absence would be noticed ... or worse, your silence.
I nodded politely at the event coordinator, who greeted me like she knew I was trying to disappear.
"Glad you made it," she said, squeezing my arm. "We've shuffled the panelists a bit , small change. Hope that's okay."
I faked a smile. "Totally."
Small change.
I should have known.
The panel room was cozy, with a semicircle of mismatched chairs facing a low platform. Writers sipped tea and shifted nervously in their seats. I took the farthest chair from the center, pulled out my notebook, and pretended to scribble ideas so no one would talk to me.
The moderator cleared her throat.
"Alright everyone. Welcome to our panel: Unblocking the Heart. We've got a beautiful mix of voices today. Please welcome..."
She paused for effect. "...our guest poet, D.K."
My pen stopped mid-scribble.
No.
I looked up, and there he was , walking calmly to the front like it was nothing, like this moment wasn't rewriting the air between us.
He wore a dark blue sweater. The sleeves pushed up just enough to show the sharp lines of his forearms. His hair was slightly damp, as if he'd just come from the rain or maybe a shower. But what gutted me wasn't how he looked. It was the way he moved ,quiet, composed, the same way he moved through my thoughts lately. Like breath. Like memory.
He didn't notice me at first.
He took his seat on the panel beside a loud fiction writer with glitter on her eyelids, nodding politely to the crowd. And then, midway through the moderator's introduction, his gaze swept the room and landed on me.
He blinked.
Just once.
But it was enough.
A tremor moved through me, subtle and deep , not fear, not shame, just… awareness.
We hadn't spoken since he came to my apartment two weeks ago.I didn't even ask how he knew where I stayed.
I've always been keen on such kind of stuff.
We haven't met since.
Since I read his poem aloud and touched his hand and said nothing when he left.
Now here he was, about to talk to a roomful of strangers about unblocking the heart, when mine was still frozen in the shape of his name.
The panel began.
Writers spoke about craft and vulnerability, about spilling truth onto the page. I barely heard them. I watched D.K. instead ... how his fingers traced the curve of his mug, how he tilted his head when someone spoke, how his silence always said more than his words.
When it was his turn, the room quieted.
He cleared his throat.
"I don't have a process," he began. "I write because otherwise I'll vanish. Not all at once. Just… slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece."
My chest tightened.
"I think there's a kind of writing that doesn't come from thought, or even intention. It comes from ache. From the parts of us we can't name but still carry."
The room was still. Even the girl with the glitter stopped nodding.
D.K. looked down, then back up.
"I wrote something a few months ago that I didn't mean to share. But I'm starting to think the pieces we're scared of are the ones that connect us."
He unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket, hands steady.
I recognized the poem before he read a word.
"Almost is a place
Between the yes and no,
Where hearts whisper secrets
And shadows softly grow."
He didn't look at me, but the entire time he read, it felt like we were alone in the room.
"It's where I found you,
In the hush before confession,
In the pause before goodbye."
I didn't move. I couldn't.
When he finished, no one clapped. They didn't need to. The silence was reverent.
During the Q&A, someone asked D.K. what gave him the courage to share such personal work.
He answered without hesitation.
"Someone I care about read it aloud once. It sounded different in their voice. Truer. Like the words belonged somewhere."
He didn't say my name.
He didn't have to.
After the panel ended, the room buzzed with chatter, but I slipped away to the back corridor near the restrooms, where it was quieter ,where I could breathe again.
I leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
And then…
"I wasn't expecting you," his voice said.
I opened my eyes.
He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"I wasn't expecting you," I replied.
We both smiled , faint, cautious.
"Why didn't you tell me you were part of this panel?" I asked, voice lower than I intended.
He shrugged. "Didn't know until last night. They called. Said someone dropped out."
"Funny. I was trying to drop out."
He chuckled softly.
Silence stretched again. Not uncomfortable , just dense.
"Your poem," I said. "It sounded different. Truer. Like it belonged somewhere."
His eyes searched mine.
"Maybe it does."
I don't know who moved first, but suddenly we were standing close , too close for casual, not close enough for safe. The fluorescent light above flickered, but neither of us looked away.
"I've been thinking about you," he said.
I nodded. "Me too."
He glanced down. "I didn't come here for this, you know."
"I know."
"I came to talk about writing, not… whatever this is."
"Then let's talk about writing," I said, forcing a small smile.
He stepped back half a step, just enough to exhale.
"You're still afraid," he said gently.
I looked away.
"Of what?"
"Of what happens when the words run out."
He paused.
"They don't," he said. "Not when it matters."
We stood in the quiet, in the hallway of almost, of maybe, of not-yet.
Then he handed me a folded slip of paper.
"My next reading is Thursday. No pressure. But if you come, maybe… I'll read the second half."
I took the paper, fingers brushing his.
He started to turn away, then stopped.
"For what it's worth," he said, "you looked brave up there. Even if you didn't speak."
And then he walked away.
I stood alone, holding a poem that wasn't finished.
Maybe that's what we were , an unfinished poem.
A sentence waiting for breath.
A story caught in the language of almost.