There's a word in a language I don't speak that means "the feeling of almost remembering something."
I don't know how it's pronounced. Only that it exists. And that it feels like this.
Like standing in your apartment with a book pressed to your chest, the spine warm from your hands, and realizing it's not about the story inside—but about who handed it to you.
I stayed up late rereading it.
The untitled book.
The one he held like it mattered, even before he opened the first page.
It's a strange kind of beautiful—written in second person, like the narrator is talking directly to a version of you that only exists in their mind. The prose is messy in places. Raw. Some lines are so vulnerable they feel like wounds.
But it's honest.
It reminds me of my own early drafts. The ones I never let anyone read. The ones before polish, before precision—just feeling.
Maybe that's why I liked it so much when I first found it. And why I like it even more now.
Because he saw value in it, too.
He understood.
And I don't know what to do with that.
•
The morning light is slow to reach my window.
I let it spill across the floor while I sip lukewarm tea and stare at the notebook on the table. The same one I used to jot plot outlines and dialogue scraps.
Now it's mostly half-thoughts and one-line truths I'll never say out loud.
He makes silence feel like a conversation.
I wish I could meet him in writing before he meets me in reality.
Maybe it's not fear. Maybe it's just reverence.
I close the notebook.
Not because I'm finished.
But because I'm not ready to write the next thing yet.
•
Around noon, I pull on my coat and step outside without really knowing where I'm going.
The city feels half asleep—fog clinging to windowpanes and the wet rustle of tires on pavement. I walk with no destination, just a quiet tug beneath my ribs that tells me to move.
Eventually, I find myself at the riverside park. The one with the rusted railing and cracked stone benches no one sits on unless they want to be left alone.
It's where I wrote my second story as Nymphaea.
The one where the girl finds a journal in a tree hollow and starts responding to the entries inside. She never finds out who wrote them, but she keeps writing anyway. Because it's enough to be understood by someone, even anonymously.
I remember the last line clearly.
"Not knowing your name never stopped me from recognizing your voice."
I sit on the bench.
The one near the broken lamp.
And I think about how he looked yesterday, holding that green-spined book with a kind of reverence, like he understood that stories aren't just stories—they're maps.
And maybe he's following mine.
Maybe he's closer than I think.
•
My phone buzzes once.
A message from my editor:
"Still waiting on that short piece for the anthology. Reminder: tone should be emotional but subtle. You're good at that."
I almost laugh.
Subtle.
I've built a whole persona out of subtlety.
But now I'm living inside it. And I don't know how to leave.
•
I open the notes app and start typing.
Not for the anthology.
For me.
Or maybe for him.
You asked why the hallway had no doors.
Maybe because it wasn't meant to lead anywhere. Maybe it just wanted to exist.
Or maybe I was too afraid to open any of them.
I think I'm ready to knock now.
I don't save it.
Just leave it open.
Like a window cracked enough to let the cold in, but not enough to be an invitation.
•
Before I leave the park, I stop by the small bulletin board by the entrance. It's filled with ads for yoga classes, guitar lessons, missing cats, and community events no one ever attends.
Someone's tacked up a note—handwritten, not typed.
"Used book exchange at Indigo's this Friday. Leave a story, take a story."
No names. No RSVP. Just the idea.
I tear off the corner of the flier and fold it into my coat pocket.
Maybe I'll go.
Maybe I'll leave something of mine behind.
Not signed.
Not claimed.
Just left.
In case someone finds it and understands.
•
That night, I read through some of his older posts again.
Quiet observations. Moments that would pass unnoticed to most people.
But he notices.
He always notices.
I think that's what makes his writing different.
He's not trying to impress. He's just trying to reflect.
And I see myself in the reflections.
Maybe that's dangerous.
Maybe that's everything.
•
At 2:13 a.m., I draft a message I don't send.
"Thank you for sharing that moment with me. You probably don't realize it, but I needed it."
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
Then I delete the draft and close my laptop.
Some truths are better carried in silence.
For now.