Chapter Three: The Window Seat Rule
Week three, you made two cups of tea instead of one.
Didn’t say anything about it—just set the second beside me like it had always been there.
I took the window seat that day.
You sat on the floor, back against the shelf, legs stretched out into the sunbeam like you owned the light.
“There’s a rule, you know,” you said after a long silence.
“Whoever sits at the window seat has to share something they’ve never told anyone.”
I looked at you. “That a bookstore rule or just yours?”
You sipped your tea. “Does it matter?”
I thought for a while. Watched the wind tug at the vines outside.
Then I said:
“I always feel like I showed up late to life. Like everyone else got a manual and I didn’t.”
You nodded. Didn’t smile.
Just said:
“Same.”
We didn’t talk much after that.
But when I left, your hand brushed mine—barely a second.
Like an accidental promise.
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