"Midnight at the Bookstore"
The rain tapped gently on the windows of the small, independent bookstore tucked between a florist and a forgotten bakery. It was nearly midnight, and the "Open Late Fridays" sign flickered in warm neon. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old pages, fresh ink, and something faintly floral—jasmine tea, maybe.
Leah had been coming here every Friday for months, always pretending to browse, but really, she was waiting.
And tonight, he finally walked in again.
Julian. The boy with the quiet smile and the camera always slung around his neck like it held his heart. She had met him once, three months ago, when they both reached for the same poetry book.
"You go first," he'd said, his voice soft but sure. "But only if you promise to tell me which poem you liked most."
She had told him. He had smiled. Then he disappeared.
But here he was now, brushing off rain, his eyes scanning the shelves until they landed on her.
"You're still reading Neruda," he said, stepping closer.
"You're still late," she replied, but her heart was pounding.
Julian laughed, pulling a slightly wrinkled photo from his coat pocket. It was a candid shot of her—taken that same night, without her knowing, framed by shelves and poetry and golden light.
"I've been looking for the right moment to come back," he said. "And I think I just ran out of excuses."
Leah smiled, the kind of smile that starts in the chest. She took the photo from his hands and held it gently.
"Well," she said, "the bookstore closes in ten minutes."
Julian leaned in, his voice low. "Then let's make them the start of something.
Leah loved the quiet hours when the city began to sleep. The bookstore on Maple Street was her sanctuary—warm light, creaky wooden floors, and shelves that whispered stories in the dark. Every Friday, she sat in the poetry corner with a cup of jasmine tea, waiting for something she couldn't name.
That something had a name, though: Julian.
They met on a rainy Friday, both reaching for the same Neruda collection. Their fingers brushed, their eyes met, and for one golden hour, the world disappeared.
But then he was gone.
For three months, she returned each week, convincing herself she was just there for the books. Until one night, as thunder rolled above, he walked in again—drenched, apologetic, and still carrying that quiet smile.
"I took your photo that night," he admitted, holding out a picture of her, caught in a moment of soft light and stillness.
"Why did you disappear?" she asked.
Julian's eyes dropped. "I had to take care of my mom. She's better now. I just... didn't know how to come back after leaving like that."
She stared at the photo. She should've been angry. But instead, she smiled—because the photo had been folded, carried, worn at the edges. It had mattered to him.
"Next time," she said softly, "just promise not to vanish."
He stepped closer, the bookstore's lights reflecting in his eyes. "Only if you promise to let me stay."
She nodded. And as the clock struck midnight, they sat together in the poetry corner, hands intertwined between the pages of Neruda, letting the rain fall around them like a love story written just for two.