Page 6 of The Words of Us

But shards scattered at your feet,

Waiting to be swept away,

Or perhaps, pieced back together

Though I’ll never be the same.”

He finishes, and for a moment, no one moves. No one breathes. The words linger in the air, suspended like fragile glass themselves, shimmering with the weight of everything he just said. The room is still, the energy palpable, and it’s as if we’re all afraid that even the slightest sound will break the spell.

I am completely captivated. It’s not just the words—though they are beautifully, hauntingly true— but it’s the way he delivers them, like each line is being carefully placed into the air, delicate and intentional. He speaks of fragility, of being shattered by love, and there’s something almost painfully honest in his voice, as if he knows these cracks all too well.

The room stays silent for a beat longer, and then the applause starts, soft at first then growing louder. But even as we clap, I can feel the room’s hesitance to let go of the moment, to release what we’ve all just experienced.

He steps back, offering a faint smile as he returns to his seat beside the beautiful dark haired woman I can’t stop looking back to, the spell broken but the electricity still buzzing in the air.

4

SASHA

We’d barely made it. Glass had heard about this place through a friend of a friend, and by the time we crossed town, we were already late. Typical. I could feel the weight of my notebooks in my bag, the familiar pressure of the poems I carry with me everywhere, but tonight wasn’t about me. It rarely is when Glass performs. He has this way of commanding a room that makes my own voice feel quieter in comparison—not in a bad way, but in a way that makes me step back and listen, to let him take the stage while I watch. Our styles are too different, like two sides of the same coin, and when he speaks, the air changes.

The door swings open, and I rush in, bringing the heavy night air with me. My eyes sweep across the room, hoping we haven’t missed everything. I glance around quickly, scanning the small crowd—and that’s when I see her.

She’s sitting at the back of the room, barely lit by the soft lamps scattered around the bookstore. Her presence hits me like a punch to the chest, unexpected and intense. She’s holding a coffee cup, her fingers curled around it like she’s trying to steady herself. There’s something about her that pulls me in instantly,as if I’ve known her in another life—or at least that’s what it feels like. Her rich brown hair is pulled back loosely, her skin glows faintly in the dim light, and her eyes… God, her eyes. They’re sharp but soft, like she’s watching the world and trying to understand it all at once.

My heart skips, and for a second, all I want to do is walk straight over to her. To sit across from her, maybe not even say anything—just be in her presence and know her somehow. It’s a strange feeling, sudden and insistent, like a magnet pulling me toward her. I don’t even know her name, but I’m already drawn to her in a way I can’t explain. The bookstore seems smaller suddenly, the rest of the room fading into the background as I imagine what it would be like to sit beside her, to feel the warmth of her gaze on me.

But then, I remember Glass.

I glance back at him still standing in the doorway behind me and pull him forward instinctively. It’s not time to indulge whatever this feeling is; I have a friend to support. I weave through the chairs with him, my hand still gripping his as I pull him toward the front of the room. We sit down, side by side, and I let the tension in my body ease as I take in the cozy, intimate space.

As Glass steps up to the microphone, the room quietens, and I feel the energy shift again. He’s in his element now, and I lean forward in my chair, letting the anticipation settle over me. Even though I’ve heard him perform countless times, every time feels like the first. His words always hit somewhere deep, in a place I sometimes forget exists until he reminds me.

When he begins, I feel the first stirrings of emotion rising in my chest. His poem cuts through me, every line about love’s fragility, about the way we shatter ourselves in the hands of those we trust. And as he speaks, I can feel my heart splinteringalong with the images he creates. His voice, soft and steady, weaves through the room, and I can’t hold back the tears.

They come slowly at first, silent and warm, trailing down my cheeks as I listen. I don’t wipe them away. I let them fall because there’s something cathartic about it, something cleansing in letting the emotion pass through me. Glass speaks of fragility, but what he doesn’t say is that in breaking, we can also find a kind of beauty. A kind of strength in knowing that we were once whole, even if we aren’t now.

When he finishes, the room is still for a beat longer, and I blink away the remaining tears, trying to collect myself. I glance back, almost instinctively, to see if she’s still there—the woman at the back. And she is still watching us with that same intense gaze. The pull is still there, stronger now.

But for now, I stay where I am.

Glass finishes his performance, and for a moment, the room lingers in that silence that always follows something powerful. But then, like clockwork, people start to stand, the gentle murmur of conversation filling the space again. The regulars know the drill—chairs get stacked, tables moved back to their places. There’s a kind of rhythm to it, and without needing much direction, Glass and I follow their lead, adding our chairs to the growing pile in the corner.

A few people approach Glass, eager to introduce themselves. They’re kind, warm, and clearly taken with his performance. One of the older women—a regular by the looks of it—clutches a small stack of books to her chest as she asks, “You coming back, honey? You should. Your work…well, it moved me. We get a bigger crowd on the weekends, though, so you’d really kill it then.”

He smiles politely, dipping his head slightly. “Thank you. I’d love to come back, but I can’t make weekends too often. I work a lot of late shifts, but Wednesdays”—he glances over at me forconfirmation, and I smile back—“I think Wednesdays might be my new thing.”

There’s a shared sense of approval in the room, and people nod in understanding. But her words stick with me: The weekends are better, bigger crowds. As Glass continues his polite conversations, promising to return, I find myself turning the idea over in my mind. I’ve been coming to poetry events with Glass, always content to let him take the stage, but something about the energy here tonight, the quiet yet engaged crowd, makes me think that maybe I could step up next time. Maybe the bigger crowd on Friday would be the push I need to finally read something of my own.

The thought simmers in the back of my mind as we finish tidying up and say our goodbyes. I tell myself that I might just come back on Friday, notebook in hand. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding behind Glass’s performances and let my own voice be heard.

As I gather my bag and notebook, the thought of Friday still lingering, I can’t help but think about the woman. The one who seemed to pull me in the moment I walked through the door. I scan the room, hoping to catch another glimpse of her, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Did she leave already? Did I miss my chance to…what? Say hello? Ask her name? I’m not even sure what I was hoping for, but the tug of disappointment settles in my chest.

Just as I turn to leave, I see her. She’s behind the counter now, quietly stacking books with an easy grace, her hair slightly tousled from the evening. She’s focused, but there’s a softness to her movements, like this is where she belongs, tending to her little corner of the world in the quiet moments of the night.

For a split second, our eyes meet again, and my heart skips a beat just like before. The intensity from earlier returns, a steady hum in the background that I can’t quite shake. She doesn’t sayanything—just offers a small, polite smile as she continues with her work.

And I realize that maybe coming back on Friday isn’t just about the poetry after all.

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