Two days pass before we see each other again.
Not because we are avoiding each other. Life simply slides back into its quiet routine. Morning light through the curtains. Homework spread across the table. The occasional sound of traffic outside.
Still, something has changed.
The silence between us no longer feels uncertain. It feels… understood.
On Thursday afternoon, I step outside with a notebook in my hand. I almost left it inside. Almost.
Writing has always been something private. Something I do when the world feels too loud or when my thoughts feel too crowded.
Sam is already sitting near the fence when I step outside.
"Hey," he says.
"Hi."
He notices the notebook immediately.
"You write?" he asks.
I hesitate.
"Sometimes."
That answer feels safer.
"What kind of writing?" he asks.
I sit down on the step on my side of the fence, turning the notebook so the cover faces my lap.
"Just thoughts," I say. "Nothing important."
"That usually means it is important."
I glance at him.
"Are you always this observant?"
"Only when people try to hide things."
I shake my head slightly, but I can't help smiling.
After a moment of silence, he speaks again.
"There's a small bookstore a few streets from here," he says. "Not many people go there."
"And?"
"I go there sometimes when I want quiet."
The idea of a bookstore sounds strangely comforting.
"You're inviting me?" I ask.
"If you want," he says quickly. "No pressure."
That last part makes me laugh softly.
"I'll come."
His eyebrows lift slightly, like he wasn't expecting such a fast answer.
The bookstore sits at the end of the street, squeezed between a café and an old stationery shop. The sign above the door is faded, like it has been there for years.
A small bell rings when we walk inside.
The air smells like paper and dust and something warm I can't quite name.
Sam walks toward a table near the window.
I stay near one of the shelves, flipping through a book absentmindedly. My notebook is still in my hand.
"You're not going to write?" he asks.
"Not here."
"Why not?"
I hesitate again.
Because writing feels like showing pieces of myself I usually keep hidden.
But instead of saying that, I shrug.
"It's embarrassing."
"Writing?" he asks.
"Letting people read it."
He nods slowly, like he understands.
After a moment he points to my notebook.
"Can I see just one page?"
"No."
"Is it that bad?"
"It's that personal."
He raises his hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay."
For a while, we sit quietly.
He flips through a book. I stare at the empty page in front of me.
Eventually, I start writing.
Just a few lines.
Without thinking too much.
When I finally look up, Sam is watching me with quiet curiosity.
"See?" he says. "You do write here."
I close the notebook quickly.
"That doesn't mean you're reading it."
"Someday," he says.
I shake my head.
"Maybe."
But deep down, I already know something.
One day… I might let him.