Page 42 of The Words of Us

The bookstore is already filling up, people drifting in with their conversations and laughter, the familiar clatter of chairs being set up for the night. It’s a Saturday, so it’s busier than usual, with the usual mix of regulars and curious newcomers who heard about our poetry nights. But tonight is different. Tonight, I’m not just the host. I’m the one waiting to read.

And I’m waiting forher.

Glass had said he’d get her here. We’d planned it all out, how he’d bring her to the poetry night, not tell her I’d be reading, just...nudge her in the right direction. He seemed so sure, so confident. But now, as I glance toward the door for what feels like the hundredth time, they’re still not here, and doubts start creeping in.

Maybe he couldn’t do it. Maybe she said no.

My stomach twists with anxiety, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. It’s no use. My mind keeps spinning with possibilities, with all the ways this could go wrong. If she’s not here, then what was the point? I’m about to bare my soul, to read something I’ve never shared with anyone, and I can’t even be sure she’ll hear it.

The clock ticks closer to the start of the event, and I force myself to focus on the tasks at hand—setting up the microphone, adjusting the chairs, checking the sound system. It’s all muscle memory at this point, the routines I’ve done a thousand times before, but tonight they feel different. Heavier.

I glance at the door again, my heart lurching every time it swings open, but it’s never them. People are filing in, taking their seats, but there’s still no sign of Glass or Sasha. A knot tightens in my chest, and I feel another pang of doubt creeping in.

Maybe she doesn’t want to come. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away. Glass promised. He said he’d talk to her, that he’d get her here. But now, with every passing minute, I feel that hope slipping away.

The room buzzes with chatter, people mingling, flipping through poetry books, but all I can hear is the pounding of my heart. I look down at my journal, the one I’ve been holding like a lifeline, and my stomach flips. I’m not used to this. I’m not a performer. I’ve hosted these nights for years, but I’ve never gotten up on that stage and read anything I’ve written.

But tonight, I’m doing it. I’m doing it for her.

The lights dim slightly, signaling that we’re about to start, and I feel a rush of nerves wash over me. I glance at the door one last time, hoping—praying—that I’ll see Sasha’s face in the crowd, but...nothing.

My heart sinks.

Maybe it’s better this way, I tell myself. If she’s not here, I won’t have to face her reaction. But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. I want her here. I want her to hear my words, to understand everything I’ve been too afraid to say. I want her to know that I’ve forgiven her, that I’ve been waiting for her.

But she’s not here.

I take a shaky breath as I walk to the small stage at the front of the room, my journal still clutched in my hands. The familiar faces of the crowd blur together as I climb the steps, the light from the overhead bulbs making the room feel warmer than it is. I feel the weight of every eye on me, but all I can think about is the two people who aren’t here.

The microphone crackles as I adjust it, and for a moment, I feel like I’m outside my own body watching someone else do this. Someone else with the courage to stand in front of a crowd and read something deeply personal. But then I catch my reflection in the window, and it’s me. It’s really me.

I open the journal, my hands trembling slightly as I flip to the page I’ve read a hundred times, rehearsed in the quiet of my apartment, whispered into the dark of sleepless nights.

The room quiets, and I clear my throat, my voice shaky as I speak into the microphone.

“I-I’m not a poet,” I start, forcing a small smile. “I’ve spent years hosting these nights, listening to so many beautiful voices share their words, their hearts. But tonight, I wanted to try something different, so here’s something I wrote.”

I pause, my fingers gripping the edges of the journal, and I glance at the door one last time. Still nothing.

She’s not coming.

I take a deep breath and begin to read.

“Love is not the kind of thing

That stays where you leave it.

It lingers in empty spaces,

Takes root in all the places

You never thought to look.

Love is not the kind of thing

That waits for you to be ready.

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