The rain hadn't stopped since last evening, a continuous hush that painted the windows of the city like a watercolour left to blur. Eli walked along the familiar streets, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. Each footstep echoed softly in the damp silence of early morning. The bookstore loomed ahead—not out of habit now, but hope.
He didn't expect to see her again so soon. He hadn't planned to return. But something in her eyes yesterday had rearranged his world. It wasn't just curiosity. It was an ache—gentle, growing, and completely irrational. A need to exist in the space where her laughter happened.
Inside, the warmth of the store wrapped around him like a familiar blanket. The scent of old pages. The creak of wooden shelves. The sound of rain softened against the glass.
He wasn't sure why, but his heart raced.
And then he saw her.
She was sitting cross-legged in the corner lounge chair near the poetry section. A thin paperback rested on her lap, her fingers ghosting over the lines like she was memorizing them through touch. Her lips moved faintly, silently reading. Her hair was slightly damp, small strands clinging to her cheek.
She hadn't noticed him yet. And Eli? He stood there longer than he should have, watching. Admiring. Drowning.
He walked over slowly. Not to startle her, but to share the same air.
"Do you always read like the world might disappear if you stop?"
She looked up, blinking, caught off guard—but not displeased.
"Only when the book's worth saving," she replied.
His smile deepened. "Then I must be interrupting something important."
She tilted her head. "Maybe. But you're worth a pause."
There it was again—that thing in her voice. A calm wrapped in fire. Something that unthreaded his logic.
He pulled a chair and sat beside her, close enough to share the light.
"What are you reading?" he asked, already knowing he wouldn't really hear the answer. He was too focused on how her eyes softened when she talked.
"Atticus," she said, flipping the page, "the kind of poetry that doesn't pretend to heal. It just stays with you."
He nodded. "Like shadows we don't chase."
She glanced at him, brows raised slightly. "You write, don't you?"
He hesitated, then gave a quiet smile. "Only in secret places."
"Invisible ink?"
"Pages I burn after writing."
Alina smiled at that, curling one leg under her. "Then say something you didn't burn yet."
He leaned back, eyes tracing her face with something careful. Vulnerable.
"In her silence, I found a poem that refused to rhyme— but I never stopped reading."
There was a pause.
"Who is she?" Alina asked, voice lower now.
"I don't know yet," he replied, staring at her as if that was the answer.
---
The conversation drifted like the rain. Books became a backdrop to something far more human. She told him about how she grew up watching her father sketch trees outside their apartment window. How her mother used to paint with words instead of brushes. How loneliness doesn't always mean being alone.
He listened. With every shift in her voice, every flicker of expression, Eli absorbed pieces of her like light through glass. She wasn't just someone he was meeting. She was someone he'd been waiting to understand.
She watched him too.
The way he leaned slightly when she spoke. The way his eyes didn't wander. The way he seemed to live in moments rather than rush through them.
There was no pressure. No flirting. No games.
Just the quiet weight of being seen.
She glanced at the clock.
"I should go," she said softly, regret peeking beneath her tone.
Eli nodded. "Then this moment will wait for you."
"Will you be here again?"
He smiled. "I live between the shelves now."
She left with a promise in her eyes.
And Eli, once again, returned to his diary. Pen trembling slightly.
"She speaks like moonlight— even shadows forget they're dark around her. And I— I forgot I was a man made of storm."
---
Later that night, he walked to the rooftop of his building. The city lights twinkled below, flickering against the wet pavement. He closed his eyes and let the cold air sting his face.
Alina.
He didn't know what was happening. Or why her absence already ached.
He opened his journal again.
"There's a difference between falling in love and quietly collapsing into someone. I think I'm learning the latter."