I wake up with the kind of heaviness that seems to follow me every morning now. The early sunlight filters through the blinds, casting long, uneven shadows across the room. It's quiet, still, like the world hasn't fully woken up yet. The silence is something that feels like it could swallow me whole if I let it.
The bus ride to work is quieter than usual. I try to ignore the emptiness, the strange pull in my chest that keeps me thinking about yesterday, about her. The bookstore. The book. The quiet weight of words that felt like they were meant for me, yet belonged to someone else.
I should be focused. I should be paying attention to the things that matter: the coffee orders piling up, the mundane interactions of the day. But all I can hear in my head are her words, over and over. "Some of them just fade away."
I don't understand it. I don't understand her. But somehow, she's there, lingering like an echo I can't shake.
My hand grips the strap of my bag, the book pressing against my side, a constant reminder of yesterday's strange conversation. The feeling of her presence still clings to me, subtle and insistent. I can't put it into words—at least, not the ones I know. It's more like a whisper that gets tangled in my thoughts, quiet enough to ignore, but loud enough to demand my attention.
I don't know why it's bothering me so much. People come and go. Strangers pass by without leaving a trace. But somehow, she's different.
•
The café is bustling as I arrive, the familiar hum of chatter, the clink of cups, the faint hiss of the espresso machine. I slide behind the counter, mechanically going through the motions. But even as my hands move, my mind is elsewhere. It's a strange, unsettling sensation. I'm doing everything right, everything as I've done a hundred times before. But everything feels off.
The air feels heavier than it should. The hum of conversation becomes a murmur, something far away. It's as if the world around me is slowing down, waiting for something—waiting for me to realize something I haven't yet figured out.
And then I see her.
At first, I don't recognize her. Not immediately. It's just a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. But when I look again, I know.
She's here. The woman from the bookstore.
She's standing in the doorway, her figure momentarily outlined by the light from outside. It's her, no doubt about it. The same dark hair, the same eyes that seem to pierce through everything they touch. There's a stillness about her, like she's waiting for something—waiting for me to see her again, maybe.
I don't know why I'm so fixated on her. Maybe it's because she's a riddle I don't know how to solve. Or maybe it's because, for some reason, I can't stop wondering why she feels so… familiar.
She enters slowly, not in a hurry. Her gaze sweeps the room, and when it lands on me, there's a quiet recognition in her eyes. It's subtle, barely noticeable, but I catch it anyway.
I straighten up. The words catch in my throat, but I force them out.
"Hey."
Her gaze flickers to me, and her lips curl into a soft smile. It's small, not really for anyone but herself. But it's enough to make my heart stumble in my chest.
"Hey," she replies, her voice softer than I remembered. "I'll take a cappuccino, please."
I nod, numb, my hands already moving on autopilot. The familiar rhythm of preparing the coffee feels like a dream. My thoughts are elsewhere, tangled in the quiet energy between us. I can't help but notice the way she's holding herself, the way she moves with a kind of quiet grace that makes everything around her feel muted in comparison.
The machine hums as I pull a shot of espresso, the steam hissing as I froth the milk. It's all too normal. Too… everyday. But she's here, and it's as if everything has changed in a single breath.
I hand her the cappuccino, our fingers brushing for a brief second. The touch is electric, but only for a heartbeat. She doesn't linger, doesn't make it anything more than a transaction. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that something more is going on between us. Something unspoken.
"Thanks," she says, her smile still there, but now it's tinged with something else—something I can't quite place. "I was wondering if I'd run into you again."
I pause, not sure how to respond. My mind scrambles to catch up with her words, but all I can manage is a quiet, "Yeah, I guess… I guess I'm here a lot."
She hums softly, as if contemplating something. The moment stretches, quiet between us. It feels like there's a thousand things I want to say, but none of them come out right. I want to ask her where she's been, what she's been reading, why she keeps lingering in my thoughts. But I don't.
Instead, I just watch her, the soft curl of her lips, the gentle way she holds her book, the quiet certainty in her presence.
"Sometimes," she says, breaking the silence, "books are like people. You don't know why they affect you, but they do. You can't forget them even when you try."
The words hit me harder than they should. It's almost like she's talking about something more than just books. About something I don't fully understand yet, but something that's tugging at the edges of my mind, just out of reach.
"I guess," I say quietly, my voice barely above a murmur. "I guess that's true."
She tilts her head slightly, as if weighing something. Her eyes meet mine, and for a brief moment, I feel like she's looking through me. Like she can see something I can't.
"You're still figuring things out, aren't you?" she asks, her voice soft but sure. "You're still looking for what you need, even if you don't know what it is yet."
I don't answer at first. How do you answer a question like that? I don't know what I'm looking for. But I can't deny the feeling that something is slipping through my fingers. That I'm losing something I haven't even had yet.
She smiles again, just a flicker of it, and then turns to leave. But before she does, she stops, looks back over her shoulder at me, and says, almost to herself, "I hope you find it. Whatever it is."
And just like that, she's gone. Gone as quietly as she came.
I stand there, staring at the space where she stood, feeling the weight of her words hanging in the air.
I don't know what I'm looking for.
But somehow, I feel like she does.