Eli had begun to feel something unfamiliar and impossible to name each morning—like waking up in the middle of someone else's dream. Not quite disbelief, not quite joy. But something that pulsed beneath the skin like memory wrapped in warmth.
He folded his blanket and sat at the edge of his bed, still in pajama pants, the floor cold beneath his feet. In his hand was the pen he'd fallen asleep with, ink smudged faintly across his palm.
The journal lay open beside him on the nightstand. Last night's unfinished sentence stared back:
I think I love the way she never says everything, but always means something.
He didn't write the rest.
Some things were better unfinished—because her presence always completed them.
Alina sat in her kitchen sipping tea, flipping through a photo catalog of exhibits. She had work to submit today. Final edits. Color tones. Presentation frames. But all she could think about was the scent of old pages, the way Eli leaned in slightly whenever she spoke, and how his eyes softened when he listened.
She was smiling again without realizing.
Harper noticed. "Still thinking about bookstore guy?"
Alina rolled her eyes, barely containing her grin. "He has a name."
Harper smirked. "Yeah. And you say it like it's a secret you don't want the world to hear."
Alina looked down into her mug. "Maybe I do."
"Gallery Friday still on?" Harper asked.
Alina hesitated. "I was thinking... maybe I'd invite him."
"Well, it's about time."
The bookstore felt like a familiar song Eli never got tired of. That afternoon, it was quieter than usual. He was arranging some new arrivals when the door chimed.
Alina stepped in, holding a folded envelope.
He looked up. "Back already?"
She smiled. "You say that like I'm not allowed."
"You always are."
She walked over, handed him the envelope.
"What's this?"
"An invitation. To the gallery showcase Friday. One of my photographs is being featured."
He opened it slowly, then glanced up with a small, teasing smile.
"Are you asking me on a date?"
Alina's cheeks flushed, her lips parting slightly in surprise—but no words came.
She looked down, adjusted the strap of her bag, then glanced up again. Still no answer.
But her blush was louder than anything she could've said.
Eli leaned in, whispering gently, "I'll take that as a yes."
She didn't confirm it. She didn't have to.
Because in that moment, he knew.
They spent the rest of the afternoon pretending it was like every other visit. Coffee. Books. Gentle conversations. But beneath it all was the quiet anticipation of something new, something both of them had secretly been hoping would happen.
"Do you get nervous?" Alina asked as she flipped through a book of Pablo Neruda's love poems.
Eli tilted his head. "All the time."
"But you always seem calm."
"I'm not. I just learned how to carry nervousness like it's a familiar jacket."
"And when you're with me?"
He smiled. "You make me forget I'm wearing it."
She looked away quickly, but he noticed the way her fingers trembled on the page.
He didn't mention it. He just sat a little closer.
Later, as they said goodbye, she lingered at the door.
"I'll see you Friday?"
"I wouldn't miss it."
"And maybe after?"
"Wherever you go," he said softly, "I'll follow."
She didn't reply—but the way she looked at him before walking out made his chest ache in the best way.
That night, Eli wrote:
Her silence is a full sentence. Her blush is a confession. And her invitation… felt like the first time someone asked me to be seen.