Page 9 of The Words of Us

I retreat to the back of the store where my small office is tucked away behind the stacks of books. I sit at my desk, staring at my journal, willing myself to write something that will ease the tension swirling in my chest. But the words don’t come easily today. Instead, I find myself doodling absentmindedly in the margins, spirals and shapes that reflect the restlessness inside me.

What if she doesn’t come?The thought crosses my mind unbidden, and I try to brush it off. It shouldn’t matter if she comes or not. The poetry night will go on, the crowd will gather, and the words will flow just as they always do. But deep down, I know it does matter. Her presence changed something in me, stirred something that I thought had long since settled into quiet. If she comes back tonight, what then? Do I let myself feel whatever this is, or do I retreat into the safety of the routine I’ve built for myself?

The thought of facing her again, of looking into those intense green eyes, both excites and terrifies me. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to feel anything like this, so long since I’ve even considered the possibility of letting someone in again. But there’s no denying the pull, the connection that I felt the moment our eyes met. And now, I’m left wondering if it’s worth the risk to explore it further.

As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the floor, I step out of my office and back into the bookstore. The golden light has shifted to a soft twilight, and I can feel the city outside coming alive in a way only New Orleans can. The first few customers trickle in, regulars who always arrive early to claim their favorite seats. I greet them with a smile, exchanging the usual pleasantries, but my mind is still elsewhere, still waiting for the moment when the door swings open and she walks in.

The clock ticks closer to the event’s start time, and more people begin to arrive. The bookstore starts to fill with the familiar buzz of voices, the low murmur of conversation as people find their seats and settle in. I move through the crowd, offering smiles and adjusting chairs, but all the while, my eyes keep drifting to the door.

And then, just as the event is about to begin, the door opens.

I turn, my heart skipping a beat, and there she is. She’s dressed casually again—jeans, a loose sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a way that looks effortless but beautiful. Her eyes scan the room, and for a brief moment, I think she might be looking for me. My breath catches in my throat, and I force myself to smile and stay calm, even as the nervous excitement inside me flares up all over again.

This time she is alone. Maybe she isn’t with that guy after all.

She spots an empty seat near the front and makes her way toward it, her movements full of that same restless energy I noticed the first time I saw her. She sits down, glancing around as if taking in the space, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking. Does she remember me? Did she feel the same connection that I did?

The crowd continues to settle in, and soon the room is packed. The buzz of conversation dies down as the first poet steps up to the microphone, and the event begins. I take my usual place at the back of the room, watching the poets speak, their words filling the space with emotion and meaning. But tonight, I’m more distracted than usual. My gaze keeps drifting toward her, watching the way she listens intently, her body language shifting ever so slightly with each new poem.

And I can’t help but feel that tonight is different—that something is building between us, even if it’s unspoken, even if it’s only in the way we keep catching each other’s glances from across the room. It’s a quiet tension, one that simmers just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to boil over.

As the evening progresses, I find myself wondering what will happen when the event ends. Will she leave without a word, slipping back into the night as easily as she entered? Or will she stay, linger for a moment, and give me the chance to finally talk to her? I don’t know the answer, but the anticipation of it keepsme on edge, the nervous excitement growing stronger with every passing minute.

And so, as the last poet steps up to the microphone, I prepare myself for whatever comes next. The calm before the crowd has passed, and now, the tension is reaching its peak. She is here, and I have no idea what that means for the rest of the night—or for the rest of my carefully constructed world. But for the first time in a long while, I’m ready to find out.

6

SASHA

Iknew I was coming back tonight. The moment I left on Wednesday, I knew. The pull is undeniable. It isn’t just about the poetry or the cozy warmth of the bookstore that has already started to feel familiar. There is something deeper, something that has been building since I first stepped foot in this place. Part of me wants to chalk it up to the energy of the city—the way New Orleans has a habit of weaving itself into your skin and pulling you into its rhythm. But I know it’s more than that.

It is her.

I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since Wednesday. I try to convince myself otherwise, try to pretend that the draw I feel is nothing more than a fleeting curiosity. But that isn’t true. It isn’t just curiosity; it is something more intense, something electric that sparks the moment I see her behind the counter, and it lingers in the back of my mind like a melody I can’t shake.

I don’t know what to make of it, don’t even know what I want from it. I came to New Orleans to find something new, to rewrite my story, but I hadn’t been looking for this. I hadn’t been looking for her. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that the pull isthere, undeniable and insistent, tugging at me with each passing thought. Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous tonight—because I know that if I step up to that microphone, if I bare my soul in front of this crowd, she will be there, watching, listening, seeing a piece of me I haven’t shared with anyone in a long time.

That scares me. But it also excites me.

When I arrive, the bookstore is already filling up, the low hum of conversation bouncing off the walls.

It is the same as before yet different. The energy is more intense tonight, buzzing with anticipation as people find their seats and prepare for the night ahead. I take a spot near the front, sliding into a chair with my notebook held close to my chest. My heart is already racing, but it isn’t just because of the crowd. It’s because of her.

I glance around, scanning the room, and there she is—the owner, standing near the back, her eyes moving over the crowd like she was taking everything in. I watch her for a moment, trying to steady the fluttering in my chest. She looks different tonight, more relaxed maybe, but there is still that quiet intensity about her. She moves through the space like she belongs there, like she is an extension of the bookstore itself—rooted, solid, but with a warmth that makes you want to get closer.

Her gaze shifts, and for a split second, our eyes meet. My breath catches in my throat, and I quickly look away, pretending to focus on my notebook. But the connection is there, even if it is brief. It feels like a jolt, like electricity sparking between us across the room. I’m not sure if she feels it, too, or if I’m just imagining things, but the weight of that moment stays with me, lingering in the space between us.

I had told myself that I was here tonight for the poetry, that this was just another chance to immerse myself in the words and energy of the event. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the fulltruth. I am here because of her. I wanted to see her again, to feel that connection again, to find out if it is something real or just a figment of my imagination.

As the poets begin to read, I try to focus, to let their words wash over me, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I keep stealing glances in her direction, watching the way she moves, the way her eyes follow the poets on stage, the way she smiles softly at the ones she knows. There is something magnetic about her, something that draws me in even when I try to resist it. And maybe that is part of the problem—I don’t want to resist it.

I’ve been running for so long—running from my past, from my mistakes, from the vulnerability that comes with opening myself up to someone new. I have built my walls carefully, methodically, keeping people at a distance so that I don’t get hurt again. But now, sitting here in this bookstore, I can feel those walls starting to crack. It isn’t just the poetry; it’s her. She is the one chipping away at my defenses, and the scariest part is that I’m not sure I want her to stop.

I don't know much about her. I don’t know what her story is, what her past holds, or what she wants out of life. But that doesn’t seem to matter. What matters is that every time our eyes meet, every time she smiles in my direction, I feel a spark of something new, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

And it terrifies me.

But it also makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in years.

---