Page 10 of The Words of Us

The night wears on, and with each passing poem, I can feel the tension inside me building. My notebook sits unopened in my lap, my fingers tracing the edges of the pages as I debate whether or not to read tonight. I had come here with the intention of performing, sharing the poem I had written. But now, sitting here with her just a few feet away, the idea of exposing that part of myself feels overwhelming.

Still, something keeps pushing me forward. Maybe it’s the poem I have written—the one about walls and fragility, about how love can break us but also make us whole again. Maybe it’s the fact that I have been hiding behind those walls for too long, and I am tired of running. Or maybe it’s her, sitting there in the back of the room, watching me with those quiet, intense dark brown eyes, silently urging me to take the leap.

Whatever it is, I can’t ignore it any longer.

The poet before me finishes their poems, and the emcee steps up to the microphone, ready to call the next name. My heart pounds in my chest, and I can feel the blood rushing in my ears, but I don’t hesitate. I stand up before she can call a different name.

“I’d like to read something,” I say, my voice stronger than I expected.

All eyes turn toward me, and for a moment, I feel the weight of the room pressing down on me. But then I glance back at her, and our eyes meet once again. This time, I don’t look away. I hold her gaze, feeling that same electric pull between us. In that moment, everything else fades away—the nerves, the fear, the doubt. All that matters is the connection between us and the poem I am about to share.

She nods permission to me.

I step up to the microphone, my notebook clutched tightly in my hands. The lights are bright and the room is silent, but I feel a strange sense of calm wash over me. I had started this poem weeks ago, before I ever set foot in this bookstore. But now, as I stand there, ready to read it aloud, it feels like these words are meant for this moment.

“This poem is called ‘We Build Our Walls,’” I say, my voice steady but soft. “It’s about the way we protect ourselves and how love can both break us and rebuild us at the same time.”

I take a deep breath and begin.

"We build our walls with fragile care,

Thin as glass, they’re always there.

A single look, a fleeting glance,

Can break them down with just a chance.

I saw you once, you caught my eye,

And something in me wondered why.

A crack appeared, but not from pain?—

A chance to build it all again.

We write ourselves in love’s soft light,

In moments brief, yet burning bright.

And though we shatter, though we fall,

We rise again, and that’s worth it all."

As I speak, the words feel different than when I had written them—fuller, more alive. I’m not just speaking them into the air; I’m speaking them into the space between me and her, letting her hear the truth of what I have been holding inside.

When I finish, the room is still for a moment, as if everyone is taking a collective breath. And then, the applause comes. Soft at first, then louder, filling the room with warmth and acceptance. I step back from the microphone, my heart still racing, but the sense of relief that washes over me is undeniable.

I glance back at her as I make my way back to my seat. She is clapping, too, her eyes meeting mine with that same quiet intensity. But there is something different now—a softness, an understanding that hasn’t been there before. And in that moment, I know that coming back tonight has been the right choice. I have let the walls come down just a little, and it feels like the first step toward something new. Something that can grow into whatever comes next.

As the night continues, I feel lighter, freer. I don’t know what is going to happen between me and her, whether this connection is something real or just a passing spark. But for now, thatdoesn’t matter. What matters is that I have taken the first step. I let myself be seen, and it is enough.

The rest, whatever it is, will come when it is ready.

The crowd starts to thin out, and the energy in the bookstore has shifted to that soft hum that always comes after a night of poetry. People linger in small groups, their conversations low but buzzing with the excitement of what they’d just experienced. I’m still riding the high of having read my poem, feeling lighter, like I’ve left something behind on that stage.

But now, with the night winding down, my thoughts aren’t on poetry anymore. They are on her. I have been stealing glances at her all evening, feeling that quiet tension that had started between us on Wednesday, and now, with the crowd thinning, it feels like there is finally space for something more to happen.

She is still behind the counter, tidying up and exchanging smiles with the regulars. I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, a nervous energy building as I wonder if I had the guts to talk to her. Part of me wants to walk out, to leave it as it is—a fleeting connection that will live in the charged air between us and never be explored. But something else, something stronger, pulls me toward her.

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