Monday dawned with a kind of stillness that felt deliberate—as though the sky itself knew not to interrupt the quiet that had settled in Eli's chest.
He moved slowly through the morning, not out of laziness, but reverence. Some days demanded stillness. Some days you wake up carrying someone else's presence so close, it feels like a prayer.
Alina.
She hadn't sent a message. He hadn't either. But the silence between them didn't feel empty. It felt like a shared pause. A page neither of them was ready to turn yet.
At the bookstore, Eli arranged the poetry display, stopping occasionally to glance at the empty seat by the window. The candle stub was still there, almost melted now, but he didn't throw it away.
He ran his fingers along its edge and whispered under his breath:
"She sat here."
And that was enough to make the morning worthwhile.
Alina's day started earlier than usual. A client meeting. Deadlines. Paperwork. But none of it seemed to hold her attention. Her mind wandered to his voice. His journal. The way he passed her poems like secrets meant only for her.
By lunchtime, she had paused mid-sentence during an email and let out a soft laugh to herself.
Her co-worker, Harper, glanced over. "What's funny?"
Alina blinked, caught. "Nothing. Just... something someone said."
"A guy?" Harper grinned.
Alina's lips curled slowly. "Maybe."
Harper leaned in. "You should bring him to the gallery thing Friday night."
Alina looked away for a moment. "We're not there yet."
"But you want to be?"
The question hung in the air.
And though she didn't say it out loud, the answer sat clearly in her chest:
Yes.
Back at the bookstore, Eli pulled out his journal during the late hours. Rain tapped against the glass again. The sky returned to gray like it missed him.
He began to write:
There's a kind of gravity in the way she says my name, Like the syllables lean toward each other. And when she looks at me, I feel like I'm no longer trying to be understood— I already am.
Just then, the bell above the door rang.
He looked up, expecting a customer, but his heart lifted when he saw her.
No umbrella. Just soaked sleeves, damp hair, and that familiar softness in her expression.
"Didn't expect you," he said.
"Neither did I."
He motioned to the counter. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Just... needed quiet. And maybe you."
He said nothing, just handed her a towel he kept by the register.
She dried her hands, then sat across from him. No words. No questions. Just two hearts in the same room again.
After a few minutes, she looked up.
"Eli?"
"Yeah?"
"If I ask you something... will you answer honestly?"
"Always."
"What do you see in me?"
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he stood, walked over to her side, and knelt beside her chair.
"I see someone who carries quiet like a crown. Someone who watches the world and doesn't realize how much it watches her back. I see strength stitched in softness. I see eyes I could live in."
Her eyes shimmered.
"I didn't come here expecting that," she whispered.
He smiled. "I didn't write it expecting you'd hear it."
She laughed, wiping a tear before it could fall.
"I think I'm in trouble," she said.
"You're not," he said gently. "You're safe."
Later that night, she stayed past closing. They made tea. Read from books. Played a quiet record. And when she finally stood to leave, he didn't stop her.
He just said, "Come back when you need the quiet again."
And she replied, "I don't think I ever stop
He wrote that night:
Some souls don't walk into your life. They return to where they always belonged.