The shop feels different today. Not in the way that's obvious, but in a way I can't quite place. It's quieter somehow, less like the usual bookstore buzz. Maybe it's the weather. Or maybe it's the thought that this is the day after.
The day after I left that comment.
I keep replaying it in my head. How simple the words were, how detached from anything I thought I was saying. But I left it. I don't know why. Maybe it was because I wanted something to stay behind. A trace of me that wasn't just caught in the grind of my regular life.
The thing is, she's never responded.
Not to my comment. Not to anything.
But today, I can't help myself. I find myself back at the book exchange section. The place where I first saw that book—the one with the simple line.
The one I never thought I'd think about again.
The moment I walk in, I can tell something's different. The usual crowd isn't as dense. No one seems to be in the usual spots. The only sound is the murmur of pages flipping and the occasional clink of a coffee cup from the café corner.
I look around for a while, and that's when I notice it.
The book.
The one with the words I thought I'd forgotten.
I'm not sure why it feels so important. But something about it pulls at me.
I reach for it, fingers brushing the spine. The familiar weight of it. The quiet feeling of its pages waiting.
I pick it up, flick through the first few lines—no title, no author. But those words at the beginning.
The ones that stayed with me.
"If you listen long enough, you'll start to recognize the silence between words."
I swallow, surprised at how much those words make me think of her. How I feel like I've heard them before, in a way that's almost too familiar.
I close the book, looking around quickly to see if anyone's paying attention. There's no one. The quiet of the bookstore feels like it belongs to me for a moment.
I pull out my phone, staring at the screen for a long time. The comment from yesterday still sits there, unchanged.
Still here.
I don't know why I keep thinking about her.
But something about this—this book, these words—makes me want to know more. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe it's nothing at all.
But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to it. There's something deeper here, hidden between the pages. Something that feels like it's waiting for me to find it.
I slip the book into my bag.
I don't know what I'm going to do with it. I don't know why I feel like it's important. But something inside me tells me that I need to hold onto it. That I'll find the answer eventually.
But until then, all I can do is wait.
•
Later, when the day settles, I'm back at my part-time job, working my usual shift at the café. But the usual distractions don't feel as comforting anymore. My mind keeps circling back to the book. The words. Her.
It's becoming harder to push away the thoughts that seem to pop up, uninvited. Thoughts of her, of the way she speaks through her writing. How it feels like she's leaving something behind with every line, something that I'm not quite sure I understand yet.
The café is quiet today. Fewer customers than usual. I feel restless, tapping my fingers against the counter as I wait for someone to need a coffee. There's a flicker of movement near the door. I glance up, but it's just another regular customer—nothing to note, nothing different.
But the thought won't leave me.
Who is she?
•
I spend the rest of my shift with the book beside me, catching glimpses of the pages between taking orders. I barely notice the time slip by, the hours blending into one another like the pages of a book I can't put down.
I make sure to slide the book into my bag before leaving.
•
As I walk home, the weight of it in my bag feels heavier than I expected. I've never been one to overthink things. But something in me tells me that there's more to this book than I know. More than just a random exchange. More than a simple story with no name attached to it.
I pass the park on the way back to my apartment. The same park I always walk through, the one where the benches are old and the trees are full of leaves that seem to whisper secrets.
I stop for a moment and sit on one of the benches, pulling the book out again. The cover is plain, almost too plain, and I can't shake the feeling that it's been left here for me. Not just by anyone, but by someone who wants me to find it.
I read through the first page again, then the next. I can't stop myself. The words are quiet, but they fill the empty space around me.
"If you listen long enough, you'll start to recognize the silence between words."
What does that mean?
•
The sky starts to darken, and I glance up, realizing I've been sitting there too long. The cold wind is starting to bite, and I can't ignore the urge to get inside.
But as I close the book, I wonder if I've just taken the first step toward something bigger.
I've found something. Something I didn't expect.
But what does it mean?
I don't know.
And maybe that's the point.