The bookstore smelled like paper and quiet.
It was the kind of place that asked people to lower their voices without saying a word, where time slowed between shelves stacked with stories waiting to be chosen. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, settling softly on wooden floors and worn spines.
She wandered through the fiction aisle, arms slowly filling with books she didn't need but wanted anyway. Novels with dog-eared corners. Poetry collections she'd already read once. Stories about love that took its time.
She was reaching for another when a familiar presence stopped her hand midair.
Not a touch—just a feeling.
She turned.
He stood a few steps away, holding a basket filled with sketchpads, pencils, and fine liners. His hair was a little messier than she remembered, his sleeves rolled up, fingers already smudged with graphite.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then his eyes widened.
"It's you," he said, barely above a whisper.
Her lips curved into a smile that felt like coming home. "Hi."
She noticed how his grip tightened on the basket, how he shifted his weight nervously, like he wasn't sure if this meeting was allowed.
"I didn't think I'd—" He stopped himself, clearing his throat. "I mean. Hello."
She laughed softly. "Are you following me?"
Color bloomed across his cheeks. "N—no. I just—needed supplies."
She gestured to his basket. "That looks serious."
He glanced down, embarrassed. "I ran out of everything at once."
"Artists," she teased gently. "Always dramatic."
He smiled—small, but real.
They fell into step beside each other, moving through the aisles without discussing it, as though their paths had simply decided to merge. Silence wrapped around them again, but this time it felt familiar. Comfortable.
She picked up a book, flipping through its pages. "Do you read?"
"Sometimes," he admitted. "Mostly when I can't draw."
"What do you read when you can't draw?"
He thought for a moment. "Stories where people say the things I can't."
She looked at him then, something warm blooming in her chest.
She held up a thin paperback. "You can borrow this one. It's gentle."
His fingers brushed hers again as he took it. "Thank you."
They stood near the art section after, her books stacked against her chest, his basket now heavier somehow. He pulled out a sketchpad, thumbing through the blank pages.
"I like bookstores," he said quietly. "They feel like… permission."
"To what?" she asked.
"To start something."
She smiled, eyes soft. "I think so too."
At the counter, they hesitated—two people unsure how to say goodbye when they didn't want to.
"I usually come here on Saturdays," she said, pretending to inspect a bookmark.
He nodded too quickly. "Me too."
Their eyes met.
"Then," she said, "I'll see you again."
As she walked away, he watched her disappear between shelves, heart light and unsteady.
This time, he didn't wonder if fate was teasing him.
He knew it was giving him a chance.