The rain didn't stop the next day. It came soft and steady, like the world was whispering secrets no one else could hear. Eli woke up to the hush of it against his window and stayed still for a while, letting the dim gray light settle over him.
He liked mornings like this. Quiet ones. Ones that didn't rush him. They reminded him of her—though he didn't know why yet. Maybe it was how Alina moved in silences, how she spoke softly and left things half-said but still somehow understood.
He went to the bookstore earlier than usual. Brewed coffee just right. Set up the reading corner. Played something old and slow on the record player. He opened his notebook and wrote a few lines before the bell above the door chimed.
She was back. Hair damp from the mist. Wrapped in a scarf that made her eyes seem brighter. She looked around like she wasn't sure she'd be welcomed, even though her name was already stitched quietly into the place by the memories she'd left.
"Still raining," she said.
"Still peaceful," he replied.
Alina smiled faintly and walked to the same spot by the window. Eli handed her a coffee again—still no sugar. She accepted it like a ritual.
They sat for a while, neither speaking. Just watching the street blur through the glass.
"You ever feel like the world slows down just for a moment?" she asked.
"All the time."
"And what do you do then?"
He looked at her, gently. "I wait. I listen. Sometimes... I hope someone else notices it too."
Their eyes met again. Not long. But enough.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a small nervous gesture. He noticed. He noticed everything—every breath, every blink, every shift in her mood, even the way she paused before responding to simple things.
"Do you like bookstores because of the stories or the silence?" she asked.
"I think I like that they hold both," he replied.
Alina nodded, sipping quietly.
"I used to come to places like this when I was younger," she said. "Pretend I belonged inside the pages."
"You do," Eli said softly. "You're...written like someone who feels too much but never says it out loud."
She blinked, almost caught off guard.
"I don't know how to take that."
"It's a compliment," he said. "The kind that doesn't need explaining."
A long silence stretched between them, filled with warmth. Alina leaned forward slightly.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
"Only when there's something worth saying."
"And I'm worth that?"
Eli didn't hesitate. "You make silence feel like it means something."
She looked away, biting the edge of her lip.
"You know, you talk like you write things you never plan to share."
"I do."
"Can I hear something?"
Eli hesitated. Then pulled out his notebook, flipping to a page. His hands trembled just a little.
He didn't read aloud. He handed it to her.
Alina held the worn pages carefully.
> I don't remember the world before her eyes.
Only the stillness they left behind.
Like staring at stars too close to touch—
They burn through you without asking permission.
> She doesn't smile often, but when she does,
I forget what pain is supposed to feel like.
And if she ever cries,
I hope her tears fall where flowers will grow.