Page 27 of The Words of Us

I spend every free minute I can with her. We slip into a routine that feels effortless, like we have been doing this for much longer than just a couple of weeks. Days pass in stolen afternoons and evenings that turn into nights, each one painting another stroke on the canvas of whatever we are building together. We wander the city, Evie’s hand always finding mine as we walk down the old streets of New Orleans, the humid air thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of music.

One night, we find ourselves on a ghost tour, the kind that weaves through the narrow alleys and past the old, haunted buildings of the French Quarter. We are just two faces in a crowdof tourists, but it feels like our own little adventure, something uniquely ours. The guide tells stories of long-dead lovers and restless spirits, and every time he leans into the dramatic, Evie squeezes my hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief and a barely contained laugh.

"This one’s my favorite," she whispers as we pause in front of an old, crumbling mansion. "Supposedly, the woman who lived here still roams the halls, searching for her lost lover. But the guide never tells you she was a poet too. She used to sit on her balcony and read her words to the night."

I look at her, bathed in the glow of the lanterns, and I can see why Evie loves this story. It is romantic and tragic, wrapped up in mystery. Just like the woman in the story, Evie is filled with her own quiet poetry, and I am beginning to understand the verses that make her who she is.

When the tour ends, we find a small café tucked away from the noise, and we sit at a corner table, sharing a slice of lemon pie and sipping coffee as the night lingers around us. There is a soft jazz band playing in the background, their music spilling out onto the street, and I watch the way Evie’s eyes sparkle, reflecting the flickering candlelight between us. We don’t need to talk much; our silences are comfortable, filled with shared looks and easy smiles. It feels like we are both content to just be, soaking up the moment as if it is all that matters.

Other days, we stay in, wrapped up in the comfort of each other’s apartments. One evening, Evie shows up at my door with takeout and a bottle of wine, and we spend the night sprawled on my couch, eating noodles straight from the carton and talking about everything and nothing. She reads to me from a newpoetry book she has brought, her voice soft and melodic, each word wrapping around me like a gentle embrace.

I listen with my eyes closed, letting her words wash over me, the cadence of her voice soothing and familiar. There is something intoxicating about the way she speaks—how every sentence feels like a secret she is sharing only with me. She pauses sometimes, catching my eye, and there is this unspoken understanding, a kind of intimacy that doesn’t need defining.

On quieter mornings, we meet at the bookstore before it opens, the city still waking up around us. I help her set up for the day, rearranging books and restocking the coffee station while she tinkers with the display tables, always finding new ways to make the space feel fresh and inviting. We drink coffee together, sitting on the counter like teenagers sneaking in before class, talking about the poetry night lineups or the oddball customers who have wandered in.

One morning, she pulls out a notebook from behind the counter, sliding it across the table with a shy smile. “I’ve been working on something,” she says, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s not much, but…I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve tried to write anything.”

I take the notebook, flipping through the pages, and I can see her in every line, every carefully chosen word. Her handwriting is neat, precise, but the words themselves are messy and raw, filled with the kind of vulnerability that makes my chest tighten. It is like she has poured herself onto the page, and I can’t help but feel honored to be let in, to see this part of her she usually keeps tucked away.

“These are beautiful,” I say, my voice soft. “You have something, Evie. You always have.”

She looks at me then, her eyes wide and sincere, and for a moment, I think she might cry. But instead, she just reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine in a touch that feelslike everything she can’t quite say aloud. We don’t need to fill the silence with words. The quiet is enough.

There are nights when we stay up too late, losing ourselves in conversation that twists and turns with the hours. One evening, we end up in the park, sprawled out on a blanket under the stars, sharing a bottle of whiskey that burns sweet and warm as it goes down. The city is quiet around us, just the occasional rumble of a streetcar in the distance, and we talk about the things we usually keep hidden—our fears, our pasts, the ways we have both tried to run from who we are.

Evie tells me about her mom, the one who is always gone, chasing something that never includes her. I watch her face, the way it tightens with the pain she rarely lets show, and I listen as she lets it all out, piece by piece. When she is done, I reach for her hand, squeezing it gently, letting her know without words that I am there, that I see her.

She squeezes back, her smile soft and a little sad. “Thanks for listening,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never really talked about it. Not like this.”

I lean in, pressing a kiss to her temple, my lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “You don’t have to say thank you,” I murmur. “I’m here. That’s enough.”

One afternoon, I find myself alone in my apartment, the late sun streaming through the window, warm and golden. I slip into the bath, letting the hot water soothe the lingering ache in my muscles, and I close my eyes, sinking deeper into the quiet. My thoughts drift to Evie, to the way she smiled at me that morning, soft and unguarded, and I can’t help but smile too.

Every time I think of her, it feels like a spark catching, something bright and hopeful lighting up inside me. I think of the way she touches me, her fingers gentle and knowing, like she understands exactly what I need even before I do. I think ofher laugh, how it can fill a room, and how her presence makes everything feel lighter, easier.

We haven’t said the words. Not yet. But they are there, in every glance, every touch, in the way she pulls me close when she thinks I am not looking, and in the way I find excuses to be near her, to catch the soft scent of her hair or feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. It is in the small things—the way she reaches for my hand without thinking, the way I catch myself staring at her when she isn’t looking, and the way she smiles when our eyes meet, like she knows exactly what is running through my mind.

I run my fingers through the water, watching the ripples spread, and I wonder how long this can last. I don’t want to think about the future, about the inevitable messiness of feelings that run this deep, this fast. All I want is to hold onto the moments we have, to keep collecting them like snapshots, little pieces of a love story that is writing itself without either of us having to say a word.

We spend our evenings in the bookstore, sometimes reading aloud, sometimes lost in our own thoughts, comfortable in the shared silence. One night, Evie finds an old record player in the back room, and she brings it out, setting it up with a grin that makes her look ten years younger. She puts on a scratchy old jazz record, the kind that crackles and pops, and we dance between the shelves, swaying to the slow, sultry rhythm, the music wrapping around us like a second skin.

Evie’s arms are warm around my waist, her cheek resting against mine, and I can feel her smile against my skin. It is soft, content, and I know then that whatever this is, it is something neither of us has planned, but both of us are already too far gone to turn away from.

Every day we spend together is another page in a story I don’t want to end. We don’t need to say the words; they are therein every kiss, every shared look, every time we curl up on the couch and let the world fall away. It is unspoken but understood, the quiet language of two people finding something they hadn’t realized they were looking for.

And in every stolen moment, every whispered confession, I can feel it growing between us—a love that doesn’t need to be declared, only felt, and it is enough.

Glass and I are tucked away in the corner of a cozy wine bar, the kind that feels like a secret you want to keep to yourself. It is a quiet spot, dimly lit, with old jazz playing softly in the background. The kind of place that invites long conversations and the slow, easy buzz of a good bottle of wine. The evening is unseasonably warm, the doors propped open to let in the faint hum of the city, and I am grateful for the breeze that keeps the space feeling open and alive.

Glass is mid-story, his voice animated as he recounts his latest poetry reading, complete with dramatic gestures that have the couple at the next table glancing over with amused smiles. He is in his element, spinning the mundane into something theatrical, and I can’t help but laugh at the way he mimics the exaggerated swoon of one of his audience members. Glass is a born performer, but more than that, he is a born friend—the kind who makes you forget your worries just by being near him.

“And then,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “this guy stands up, right? And I swear, Sasha, he’s got tears in his eyes—actual tears! I’m thinking, ‘Wow, Glass, you really nailed it tonight,’ but then he just yells, ‘That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard!’ Can you believe it?”

I laugh, nearly choking on my wine. “No way! What did you do?”

Glass leans back, swirling his glass with the kind of dramatic flair only he can pull off. “Oh, you know me. I bowed. Gave him the full performance. I mean, if you’re gonna bomb, bomb spectacularly, right?”

“Right,” I agree, still giggling. “You gotta own it. Make it part of the show.”

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