Page 8 of The Words of Us

The bookstore is quiet today, quieter than usual for a Thursday afternoon. The occasional creak of the floorboards beneath my feet and the soft rustle of pages being turned by a single customer are the only sounds filling the space. I should feel content—the place is running smoothly, the shelves are neatly arranged, and there’s a calmness in the air that would have normally soothed me. But today, the stillness feels heavy, like a weight pressing down on my chest.

I take a deep breath, settling into the worn leather chair behind the counter, and allow myself a moment of reflection. It’s been years since I’d inherited this bookstore from my grandmother, and in many ways, it’s become my whole world. I’ve poured my heart into every inch of this place: curating the shelves with care, hosting poetry readings, and fostering a community that feels like home. On the surface, everything is going well. The regulars keep coming back, and the steady influx of tourists ensures that business is never too slow. By most standards, this is success.

And yet, it’s not enough. Not entirely.

The problem isn’t with the bookstore; it’s with me. I’ve felt it for a while now, this creeping sense of stagnation in my personal life. I’ve become so consumed by the rhythms of running the store and of taking care of everyone else that I’ve forgotten how to take care of myself. Or maybe I’ve just been avoiding it. Either way, something feels missing, and I don’t have to look far to know what it is—romance, companionship, connection. The things I’ve pushed aside ever since the last heartbreak left me feeling like I was standing in the wreckage of my own life, unsure of how to rebuild.

I let out a sigh, rubbing my thumb absentmindedly over the smooth surface of my coffee cup. The memory of that last relationship is still fresh, even though it’s been years. Her name was Claire. She was everything I thought I wanted: a brilliant, charming, and passionate woman. But passion has a way of burning too hot sometimes, and eventually, we both got scorched by the flames. When it ended, it felt like a piece of me had been torn away, and in the aftermath, I retreated into the safety of the bookstore, throwing myself into the familiar comfort of books and the quiet routine of my days. It was easier that way, safer. I convinced myself that I didn’t need love, not when I had this place. But now, I’m not so sure.

My thoughts drift back to last night’s poetry reading. It had been an ordinary Wednesday—quiet, intimate, the kind of night where the regulars gathered, and the energy was low but warm. And then she walked in.

I can’t get her out of my mind. She arrived late, her presence rushing in like a gust of wind, shaking the calm stillness of the bookstore. There was something electric about her, something that drew me in from the moment I saw her. Dark, restless hair framed her face, and her green eyes—they were intense, searching, like she was looking for something but wasn’t sure what. For a brief moment, our eyes locked, and it was as ifthe air between us shifted. I felt something then, something I haven’t felt in a long time—a spark, a stirring deep inside me that I didn’t expect. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to feel anything like that, to even consider the possibility of letting someone in again. And yet, there she was, a stranger, pulling at something buried inside me.

I set my coffee cup down and reach for my journal, an old leather-bound notebook I keep tucked beneath the counter. Writing has always been my way of making sense of things, of working through the thoughts and emotions that I can’t quite articulate in the moment. I open it to a blank page and stare at it for a moment, the pen hovering just above the paper as I search for the words.

What am I afraid of?I begin, the words coming slowly at first. It’s been years since Claire left, and I’ve been fine. Fine in the sense that I’ve learned how to be alone, how to build a life that’s full without the need for someone else to fill it. But lately, I’m not sure that’s enough. Last night, when I saw her—the woman who walked in late, the one with that wild energy—I felt something. It was brief, a flicker, but it was there. A reminder that maybe, just maybe, I still have the capacity to feel something for someone. And that terrifies me.

I pause, my pen hovering as I think back to that moment. What was it about her that struck me so deeply? Was it the way she seemed so alive, so full of energy and possibility? Or was it something more—a recognition of something I’ve been missing in myself for far too long?

Maybe it’s easier to stay closed off,I write.Maybe it’s easier to hide behind the routine of the bookstore, to focus on the things I can control. But that’s not living, is it? That’s just surviving. And I want more than that, don’t I?

I sit back in my chair, the weight of the words sinking in. I do want more. I’ve always wanted more. I just haven’tallowed myself to acknowledge it because doing so would mean confronting the fear that has kept me walled off for so long. The fear of getting hurt again, of opening myself up to someone only to be left standing in the wreckage once more.

But last night felt like a crack in that wall—a small crack, but a crack nonetheless. And now I’m left wondering if it’s worth exploring. If it’s worth seeing what’s on the other side of that fear. Maybe that’s what life is about, after all—taking the risks, even when you’re scared. Especially when you’re scared.

I close the journal and run my fingers along the worn edges of the leather cover. There’s something comforting about the familiar texture beneath my fingertips, but there’s also something unsettling about the realization that’s beginning to form in my mind. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been hiding behind this bookstore for far too long. I’ve allowed it to become my whole world because it’s safe. But safety isn’t the same as fulfillment, and I think I’ve been confusing the two.

I stand up, stretching out my legs as I glance around the empty store. The shelves are lined with stories—stories of love, loss, adventure, and discovery. Stories that I’ve surrounded myself with for years, but never fully allowed myself to live. Maybe it’s time for that to change.

The bell above the door jingles softly, and I glance up to see a customer entering. It’s one of the regulars, a kind older man who comes in every Thursday to browse the poetry section. I offer him a smile and nod in acknowledgment before turning my attention back to the store.

As I walk through the aisles, straightening books and tidying up, my thoughts keep returning to that woman. I don’t even know her name, but she’s left an impression on me, one that I can’t seem to shake. I wonder if she felt it too—the connection, the spark—or was it just me being caught off guard by something I didn’t expect to feel again?

Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that something inside me has shifted. And now I’m left with the question: Am I ready? Ready to open myself up again, to take the risk of letting someone in, even if it means facing the possibility of heartbreak?

I don’t know the answer yet. But what I do know is that I’m tired of living my life on the sidelines, of watching others experience the kind of connection I’ve been avoiding for so long. Maybe it’s time to take a step forward, to allow myself to be vulnerable again. Even if it scares me.

With that thought in mind, I head back to the counter and pick up my journal once more. Flipping to a new page, I begin to write again, this time with more certainty.

Sometimes, the only way to move forward is to break through the walls you’ve built around yourself. To take a chance on something new, even when you’re not sure where it will lead. Because maybe, just maybe, what’s waiting on the other side is exactly what you’ve been searching for all along.

I close the journal and place it back under the counter, feeling a sense of resolve settle over me. The bookstore may be my sanctuary, but it doesn’t have to be my prison. There’s a whole world out there waiting to be explored—people, places, experiences I’ve yet to discover. And maybe, just maybe, she’s part of that world.

As the day winds down and the sun begins to set outside the windows, I find myself feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope. Hope that, perhaps, I’m ready to take the first step toward something new. And that’s enough for now.

Friday arrives with its usual buzz, the city’s energy humming at a higher frequency as the weekend begins to unfold. In the FrenchQuarter, people are already spilling into the streets, filling cafes and bars, their laughter mixing with the distant echo of jazz that seems to be ever-present in the background. But inside the bookstore, everything is still—for now.

The morning light filters through the tall windows, casting soft golden rays across the rows of bookshelves. I’ve been up since dawn, fussing over every small detail, making sure everything is in its place for tonight’s poetry event. It’s going to be a big one; I can feel it. The weekends always draw a larger crowd, a mix of familiar faces and curious newcomers. But tonight feels different. There’s an anticipation hanging in the air, a subtle tension that’s been building inside me since Wednesday night.

I wipe down the counter for what must be the third time, trying to channel my nervous energy into something productive. My thoughts keep drifting back to her. That woman who walked into the bookstore on Wednesday night like a gust of wind, all wild energy and intensity. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since, and it’s left me in a state of restless anticipation. I keep wondering if she’ll come back tonight, if she’ll stand in the same room as me again and what that might mean. It’s strange to feel this way—nervous and excited all at once—but the feeling is there, unmistakable.

I’ve always been good at managing events like this. The bookstore may be quiet most days, but on nights like these, it comes alive in a way that reminds me why I do this. Poetry nights are my favorite. There’s something magical about watching people step up to the microphone and spill their hearts out, raw and vulnerable. I love the way the words fill the room,lingering in the air like incense, transforming the space into something sacred.

But tonight, as I prepare for the event, I find myself more distracted than usual. The memory of her intense gaze lingers in my mind, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to talk to her. To really talk to her, not just exchange glances from across the room. There was something about her—something I can’t quite put my finger on—that made me feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in years. It’s a feeling I’ve been trying to ignore and push down, but it keeps bubbling up, no matter how hard I try to focus on my work.

The hours seem to drag as the day stretches on. I busy myself with setting up the chairs, making sure there’s enough space for the crowd I’m expecting. I pull out the microphone and sound system, testing it just to be sure everything’s in working order. My hands move through the motions, but my mind is elsewhere, drifting between thoughts of tonight and the possibilities it holds.

By late afternoon, the bookstore is ready. The chairs are neatly arranged in rows, the microphone stands tall at the front, and the small stage is set. The only thing missing is the crowd. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the nervous excitement inside me only grows. I find myself glancing at the door every few minutes, half-expecting her to walk in early. But the door remains closed, and the bookstore stays quiet.

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