It had been three days.
Eli had replayed her smile in his mind like a favorite song. He had scribbled dozens of unfinished verses in his journal, each trying to capture the way she made the room feel warmer, quieter—more alive.
The poetry book she touched remained where she'd left it. He hadn't shelved it. It felt like something sacred now, a bookmark in a chapter neither of them had opened yet.
The morning was cloudy again. Dark skies, his favorite kind. He brewed his coffee slower, hoping, wishing. Maybe she'd come back.
And then she did.
Alina stepped into the shop with the same calm grace, her hair damp from the rain, her eyes scanning with quiet familiarity.
Eli stood behind the counter, heart tapping against his ribs.
"Hi," he said softly, stepping out from behind the register.
She turned to him, surprised—but not startled. Something in his voice had weight, sincerity.
"Hi," she replied.
"I, uh... noticed you left this open last time." He gestured to the poetry book, still resting on its wooden stand.
Her brows lifted slightly, amused. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything... about that day," he said, then paused, flushing slightly. "I mean, I just like when people find the poetry corner. Not many do."
She laughed gently, the kind of laugh that made the air feel softer.
"You run this place?" she asked, walking slowly toward the book.
"Yeah. Well, I manage it mostly. It was my uncle's. He loved books more than people."
She traced the cover with her fingers.
"And you?"
"I like people... who love books." He smiled nervously.
She looked at him, eyes thoughtful. "You speak like you write."
"Do I?"
"Like there's more behind every word."
Eli chuckled, eyes down. "Maybe I'm just nervous."
"Why?"
He lifted his eyes to hers. "Because you're standing here. And I'm trying not to say something stupid."
Alina tilted her head, watching him.
"You're doing alright so far."
He smiled—wide, real. The kind that took him by surprise.
She glanced around the shop. "This place... it's like a hidden chapter."
"I always hoped it felt that way," he said. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere someone might come to find themselves in a story—and maybe leave feeling a little less alone."
She didn't respond right away. Her eyes softened.
"That's beautiful," she whispered. "Not many people think like that."
Eli swallowed. "Not many people walk in and make it feel true."
Silence.
But not awkward. It felt like they were both letting something settle in the space between them.
And later, in his journal...
She came back.Like rain finds the same window twice.She spoke, and her voice—God, her voice is like honey stirred with sadness.She sees through things. Not just people, but the pauses between their words.And when she said I speak like I write,I almost asked her to read me out loud.
"Would you..." he began, nervous again. "Would you like coffee? On the house. Or tea, if you're a tea person."
She smiled. "I like coffee. No sugar."
"My kind of person," he said, walking toward the back.
As he made her drink, he kept glancing through the small window to see her still standing by the poetry shelf. Still reading. Still here.
When he returned, she took the mug from him gently. Their fingers brushed. Just briefly.
"Thank you," she said.
"Anytime," he replied, meaning every syllable.
They sat on opposite chairs near the rain-fogged glass. Not too close. Not far either.
And they spoke. Not fast. Just gently.
About books. And music. About how she loved Chopin, and he preferred Miles. About how the world was too loud most of the time, and they both liked the kind of quiet that asked nothing of them.
When she left, she didn't take a book.
But she looked back again.
This time, for a little longer.
And this time—so did he.
There's something strange in how you talk to someone,And it feels like poetry answering back.She doesn't smile with her mouth first,It's her eyes—those eyes again—And I wonder if she'll keep coming back,Or if I'll keep waiting like this forever