The sky is clouded, the air heavy with the possibility of rain, but it doesn't matter. I'm already feeling something heavier.
The book exchange is tonight.
I hadn't planned on going at all. Honestly, I never intended to leave anything behind. I just wanted to see if there would be others—people who shared the same quiet reverence for stories that were, in their own way, unfinished. Maybe it's the fear of being too exposed, too visible. That's how I've always written. Anonymously. Without expectation.
But the more I thought about it, the more it felt like a chance. Not just to give something away, but to let go of a part of myself, carefully wrapped in ink and paper. A side of me that isn't held by my name or my face.
A story, without the weight of the writer.
•
I pull open the drawer where I keep everything—scraps of paper, notebooks filled with words I've erased and rewritten, lines of dialogue I'll never use. It's easier to sift through the forgotten things than the ones I've kept close.
The book I want to leave is simple. A story that is almost everything and nothing. One I'm not sure I've ever let myself finish.
The title is unwritten, just a feeling.
I hold it for a moment, feeling its weight, wondering what he might think if he read it. He might not even notice. But then again, maybe he would. He has this way of catching things no one else does.
But I can't attach myself to that thought. I can't afford to hope that he'll somehow know it's mine.
Instead, I settle for something quieter. Something that doesn't shout to be found.
I reach for the pen.
I write the first line, knowing it will be the only mark of ownership I leave behind:
"If you listen long enough, you'll start to recognize the silence between words."
It's not a big gesture. No name. No claim. Just a line, a thread that, if anyone follows it, might lead them to me. Or somewhere close.
The ink smells fresh, and for a moment, the world feels far away. It feels like I'm standing on the edge of something, and all I have to do is take one step forward. But something holds me back, even now.
I leave the page unfinished.
•
I set the book aside and look out the window. It's not a beautiful day. It's not a day full of promise. But it feels like one of those moments that could be. One of those quiet, unspoken things that turn into stories.
I could leave the book there, tucked in the corner, without a single word more. But something in me stirs at the thought of him, standing among the shelves, maybe picking it up, maybe turning the pages. What would he think if he saw that line?
Would he recognize the words? Would he wonder, just a little, if it was meant for him?
•
I don't have the answer, and I don't think I'll ever find out. Not in the way I want. But I have to leave it. Even if I don't know who will read it, or if anyone will. Even if it's a risk.
I can't stay in the same place forever.
I can't keep hiding from every feeling that feels too big to be real.
•
The walk to the bookshop is short, the streets quiet. I pass by the familiar storefronts, each one filled with the usual colors, smells, and sounds. But none of it registers. Not today.
The shop is already filling up when I get there. A few people linger by the shelves, some with books in hand, others just reading the handwritten notes on the bulletin board.
I find the designated area for the exchange. It's small, tucked in the back corner. Someone's left a few old novels, the edges frayed, the spines worn. The kind of books people might forget, but that still hold value.
I leave my book among them, tucked in the middle, hoping it'll blend in. It's easy to forget things here, and that's what I need. To leave something behind and disappear into the crowd.
I think about the story I wrote—the one about the girl who finds the journal in a tree hollow, about how she keeps writing back without ever knowing who the other person is. The thing I didn't realize when I first wrote it was that she was me, in a way. Just reaching out, hoping someone would hear her, even if they never understood.
•
I linger by the table, uncertain. The light from the shop's lamps is soft, casting long shadows over the shelves. I feel like I'm the only one not talking, not asking for anything. The moment feels too fragile to disturb.
But I can't stay here forever.
I turn away and head toward the door, trying not to notice the emptiness in the space behind me. I don't look back. Not yet.
There's nothing left to say.
•
On the way home, I feel it again—the same quiet hum that lingers when you've made a choice, but can't fully accept the weight of it yet.
I don't know if anyone will find the book. I don't know if he will, or if anyone will care about the words I've left behind. But for now, I've done something. Even if it's nothing, it's mine to leave.
And maybe that's all it needs to be.