I am a fool for you, and the things that you do
Emma's Pov
It has been two weeks since I last saw Aubrey.
Fourteen long days.
Fourteen nights where the city folded into quiet shadows and I found myself listening for footsteps that never came.
Fourteen mornings where the first thing I looked for was him—and the first thing I didn't see was him.
And in those fourteen days, something strange, almost magical, kept arriving for me.
At first, it was just flowers—white tulips tied with silk ribbon, their petals trembling like they were breathing. Then came the Hershey's Kisses scattered inside a tiny linen pouch. A letter written on textured cream paper, the ink slanted and elegant.
Then more.
A small glass vial of lavender buds.
A pressed forget-me-not sealed between two pieces of wax paper.
A bookmark made of watercolour paper, brushed with delicate blue strokes.
A packet of rose tea.
A single page torn from a poetry book—Rilke, "Love consists in this..."—the edges soft, the underline gentle, as the pen had hesitated.
Each one left quietly.
Each one was placed somewhere I would find but never see the hand that placed it.
June became obsessed, convinced she could "decode" the sender.
Emmett began inspecting every delivery like a detective, squinting at handwriting and ribbon knots.
They both think they know.
They both think it's him.
Aubrey Ardel doesn't leave enough traces of himself.
He arrives like winter—silent, breathtaking, impossible to catch—and disappears just as easily.
He's the kind of man who carries entire symphonies behind his eyes but never lets anyone hear the full melody. Someone who stands too close and somehow feels too far away. Someone who looks at you like he's memorizing you, yet vanishes before you can ask why.
Someone like that doesn't leave rosemary sprigs wrapped in twine.
Someone like that doesn't tear out poem pages for a girl whose hands always smell faintly of coffee grounds and ink.
No.
Someone like him shouldn't do these things, but he does.
I try my best to hide he truth—the one I keep buried behind sarcasm and small smiles—that I've already fallen for him.
Deeply.
Irrevocably.
Like my heart tripped over something and never found its balance again.
He doesn't know.
He can't know.
I barely let myself know.
And every time a new gift appears—whether it's a caramel candy with a tiny heart doodled on the wrapper, or a sprig of baby's breath tucked into my apron pocket—I feel something flutter wildly inside me. Something foolish. Something dangerous.
Not because I know they're from Aubrey.
But because part of me wants to imagine that he cares enough to leave pieces of himself scattered in my world because he loves me too.
Late at night, when I'm alone, I let myself imagine it for the length of a breath:
Aubrey choosing these things with hesitant fingers.
Aubrey writing those notes, rewriting them, crumpling them, starting again.
Aubrey standing outside the café, trying to work up the courage to knock.
But dawn comes, and reality returns—cold and sensible.
He hasn't come back.
He hasn't called.
He hasn't even walked past the window.
He's gone.
So why does my heart still rise—treacherous, hopeful—every time the café doorbell rings?
Why does every bouquet make me ache for the one who has sent it?
Why do I still wait for him?
Maybe because loving him feels like waiting for something that was never promised, yet still feels inevitable.
Maybe because the smallest part of me still believes he'll walk through that door again, eyes softening when they find me.
And until then, I tuck each gift away as carefully as I tuck away the truth:
I've fallen for Aubrey Ardel.
And he has no idea.
This morning, I was smiling to myself.
A small, helpless kind of smile—the kind that slips onto your lips before you even realize you're wearing it. I knew that today, as always, I would receive a present from him. Another little piece of him was left quietly in my world. Another mystery wrapped in silk ribbon or tucked between pages.
I moved through my tiny apartment in a daze, the soft winter light spilling across the floorboards, warming the edges of my thoughts. Half smiling, half wondering—what would it be today? A flower? A folded note? A pressed petal? A poem line that would sit on my tongue all afternoon?
But beneath all that...
beneath the guessing, the anticipation, the flutter of excitement in my chest—
There was a real desire.
The one I try not to name.
The urge—
the desperate, aching urge—
to hope that instead of another gift, he would appear.
That today he would finally be the one waiting for me.
That he would knock softly on my door with those impossible emerald eyes, the ones that seem to look through people instead of at them.
That he'd stand there, taller than I remember, shoulders tense like he's unsure if he should be here, hair falling messily across his forehead in that way that makes something in me tighten.
I want—God, I want—to catch even one whiff of the scent that clings to him, that cold, clean smell of winter wind and something darker, deeper.
I want to see the way his lashes lower when he's thinking.
I want to watch his mouth hover between a frown and something softer.
And I want to touch him.
Not fully, not boldly—just a little.
A brush of fingers against his sleeve.
A momentary contact that would confirm he's real, that I didn't imagine all the things in his eyes that night.
It feels foolish, ridiculous even, to want someone this much without knowing if he wants you back. To long for someone who ghosts rooms like smoke, who disappears behind silence, who leaves pieces of himself everywhere except where I want him to be.
But waiting for him has become part of my mornings.
Part of my breathing.
Part of the strange, hopeful rhythm that carries me from sunrise to sunset.
And today, as I stood in my apartment smiling at nothing and everything—
I let myself hope, for once, that the greatest gift he could give me...
was simply himself.
There was a knock on the café's back door—short, firm, and utterly unfamiliar.
Not June's playful, impatient tapping that always dances across the wood.
Not Emmett's heavy, chaotic pounding that rattles the doorframe like he's trying to break in.
This one was precise.
Neutral.
Too polite.
Like it had travelled here intentionally, crossing the morning air just to find me.
The sound slid into my spine, unwinding a thin, cold ribbon of alertness—an instinct I could never afford to ignore. My hands stilled mid-motion, the coffee pot steaming behind me as the ordinary morning around me suddenly felt... punctured.
"Delivery for Miss Emma!" a voice called out.
My breath caught, small and sharp.
I approached the door quietly, each step soft against the tiled floor.
My fingers brushed the hidden gun beneath the counter.
A touch of metal.
A promise of safety.
A reminder of the world I really belonged to.
My hand stayed anchored to it as I cracked the door open.
A blade of cool morning air cut through the narrow opening, fluttering the loose strands of my hair.
Outside stood a man in a sky-blue uniform.
Brown eyes. Calm.
Skin lightly flushed from the autumn wind.
A neatly pressed shirt tucked into matching pants, a cap with the delivery company's logo embroidered in silver thread.
He looked so painfully normal that it made me more suspicious—not less.
He was the kind of man people forget after a single glance.
There was something in his hand.
An envelope.
Thick, luxurious parchment.
Edges gilded softly, catching the light like the edge of a sunrise.
My name—Emma—was written in elegant, looping black ink that looked almost familiar.
"Ma'am, I just need your signature," he said, voice polite and warm.
I forced a small smile, though my heartbeat throbbed against my ribs.
I took the clipboard.
For the slightest moment—less than a breath—my pen hesitated. Then, with controlled precision, I wrote the name I was never supposed to give freely:
Ayah Ferdous.
"Have a good day, ma'am," he said, offering a gentle nod.
"You too," I murmured, closing the door softly.
The latch clicked.
All I could hear was the thundering rhythm of my pulse.
I put the gun on the table where the morning sun has spilled across, turning dust into floating gold. My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted the envelope—its texture soft yet substantial, like something crafted with intention rather than convenience.
I inhaled.
And opened it.
Two things slipped out with a faint whisper of parchment:
A concert ticket.
And a letter.
The ticket rested on my palm—black matte with gold accents, elegant, expensive. Front row seat. Not a coincidence. A choice.
But it was the folded letter that made my breath stutter.
I recognized the handwriting instantly.
Aubrey.
His script was precise, deliberate, almost sculpted—each letter carved with a restraint that told more truth than any spoken sentence.
My stomach tightened, warmth and fear tangling in my chest as I unfolded the paper.
Dear Emma,
How are you?
I know it's very rude of me not to show up or visit, but trust me—I was extremely busy.
But now that I have a chance to meet you, I don't want to miss it.
On the 24th of September, at 9 P.M., I will be having a violin show—more like a contest—and I want you to come.
I want you to watch me, and I also have something important to tell you.
I hope you will come.
Yours,
A.A
Aubrey Ardel
Time didn't stop.
But my world did.
The breath I'd kept trapped inside me melted out in one slow, trembling exhale.
This wasn't a polite invitation.
It wasn't casual.
It wasn't something he'd send to any girl in the city.
This was intentional.
He wanted me there—not as a stranger in the crowd, not as a customer from the café, not as someone who drifted in and out of his periphery.
He wanted me.
Me—
With all my lies,
with my hidden name,
with my secret life, he didn't know he was walking into.
He wanted my eyes on him, watching him play, watching him breathe, watching him step into the spotlight.
He wanted me close enough to see the tension in his fingers, the burn in his expression, the art in the way he holds a violin like it's both a weapon and a wound.
And something important?
Those words echoed in me like a second heartbeat.
A confession?
A truth?
A warning?
I didn't know.
But I felt its weight.
Its urgency.
It's hope.
For weeks, I had been receiving fragments of someone—whispers of presence in the form of flowers, chocolates, pressed petals, handwritten notes.
Little pieces left for me to find.
But this—
This was not a piece.
For the first time, he wasn't sending something small or symbolic.
He was offering something real.
He was offering himself.
And that alone was enough to terrify me...
and unravel me.
Snowflakes clung to the deliveryman's jacket as he stepped onto the sidewalk, brushing off the cold before pulling out his phone. He dialled the number he'd been given.
"Mr. Ardel? Yes, it's me," he said as soon as the call connected. "I just dropped off the parcel."
He shifted his weight, tucking the signed receipt safely under his arm.
"Yes, she accepted it. And she signed the proof herself," he confirmed.
"Everything's in order. I'll deliver the receipt to your office within the next hour."
A short exchange followed—clear, efficient, professional.
"Alright, sir. Yes. Understood."
He nodded once. "I'll see to it."
"Have a good day, Mr. Ardel."
He ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and continued walking through the snow—unaware of the storm the signature in his jacket was about to stir.