Page 24 of Knot on the Market

I knock once, quickly, then retreat to the street before she can answer. From the corner, I hear her door open and see the light spill onto the porch as she discovers the package. I don't let myself watch her reaction, that would cross a line I'm not ready to cross.

But I can't help the small surge of satisfaction knowing she'll find the poetry book, knowing she might understand why I chose those particular lines about finding strength in starting over.

The walk back to my apartment takes longer than usual, partly because I'm in no hurry to return to an empty space after being surrounded by the warm evidence of Lila's presence,and partly because I keep thinking about the moment her light spilled onto the porch as she discovered the books.

My apartment sits above the bookstore on Main Street, a small but efficiently designed space that suits my need for order and privacy. Tonight, though, the careful organization and minimalist aesthetic feel less like peace and more like emptiness.

I pour myself a glass of wine and settle into the chair by the window that overlooks the street. From here, I can see most of Main Street, the diner with its warm glow, the corner where her street branches off toward her house. It's a view I've enjoyed for five years, but tonight it feels like a watchtower, like I'm positioned to observe a life I'm not quite part of.

The poetry book I marked for Lila sits on my coffee table. The same edition, the same poem. I bought it for myself months ago and have read it enough times to have it memorized, but tonight the words feel different. Tonight they feel like a conversation I'm having with someone who may or may not be listening.

"From broken places, something beautiful grows," the poem begins. "Not in spite of the cracks, but because of them. Light gets in where we least expect it, and what seems like ending becomes the space where beginning lives."

I read the lines again, imagining Lila's voice speaking them, imagining her hands turning the pages. Does she understand why I chose this particular poem, this particular page? Does she see herself in the metaphor of transformation, or does it feel like presumption from someone who doesn't know her story?

More importantly, does she want to be known by someone like me—someone who notices too much and feels too deeply and can't seem to find the right balance between patience and pursuit?

My phone buzzes with a text from Levi.

Books delivered safely? Or are you still wandering the streets brooding?

I consider ignoring it, but Levi has an annoying habit of showing up at my apartment when I don't respond to his messages.

Delivered. Not brooding.

Sure you're not. For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice with the poetry book. She seems like someone who'd appreciate that kind of thoughtfulness. Dean's over there cooking for her right now. Making enough food for six people because he's nervous.

The message makes something warm and territorial unfurl in my chest, which is probably exactly the reaction Levi was hoping for. Dean's cooking for her while I'm sitting here with poetry and wine. The irony isn't lost on me.

Good for Dean,I type back.

Julian. You know you're allowed to want things, right? You don't have to analyze every feeling until it's safe enough to acknowledge.

I stare at the message for a long time before responding.Some things are worth waiting for.

And some things are worth taking a risk for. Just saying.

He's right, which is why I don't respond. Instead, I set the phone aside and return to the poetry book, to the words I chose for someone who may or may not understand what they mean to me.

Outside my window, Honeyridge Falls settles into its evening rhythm. Lights come on in houses where people are sharing meals and stories and the comfortable intimacy of knowing someone well enough to exist in the same space without conversation. It's a picture of contentment that I've always appreciated from a distance, but tonight it makes me acutely aware of my own solitude.

For five years, I've been content with observation, with the quiet satisfaction of understanding how things work without needing to be central to their operation. I've built a good life here, meaningful work, solid friendships, a place that feels like home. It's been enough.

But lying in bed later, staring at the ceiling and thinking about white musk and green apples, about the way Lila's breath caught when I stood too close, about the poetry book that might be sitting on her kitchen table right now... I realize that enough might not be enough anymore.

I don't know if she'll want me. Hell, I don't even know if she's looking to date anyone. But for the first time in years, I'm willing to risk the possibility of disappointment for the chance at something more than enough.

When I finally sleep, I dream of a house that smells like green apples and possibility, of morning coffee shared in a kitchen where broken things get fixed together, of someone who understands that the most beautiful structures are built slowly, with patience and intention and the willingness to get the foundation right before moving on to anything else.

I dream of Lila reading poetry by lamplight, her fingers tracing the same lines I marked for her, her voice speaking words about new beginnings and the courage it takes to let light into broken places.

And when I wake, the dream doesn't fade the way dreams usually do. Instead, it settles into my chest like a promise I'm not ready to make but can't quite let go of either.

Maybe Levi is right. Maybe some things are worth taking a risk for.

Maybe it's time to stop observing from the sidelines and start figuring out how to become part of the story I want to be telling.

Starting tomorrow, I'm going to learn how to fix houses.

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