Chapter Ten: Shelves That Remember
You started placing things differently after that.
The sugar was left closer to my side of the counter.
The pen you always used ended up near my notes.
And somehow, every time I reached for a book, your hand was already there.
It wasn’t coincidence.
We were becoming a rhythm.
One evening, just before closing, I found a folded slip of paper tucked into a novel I hadn’t touched yet.
Your handwriting. Careful. Small.
“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t met here?”
I held it in my hand a while.
Then slid it back between the pages, adding just one line beneath:
“I think we would’ve kept finding each other anyway.”
When you found it, you didn’t say anything.
You just leaned your shoulder into mine as you passed.
And that single moment held more than any kiss could have.
We hadn’t said we were lovers.
We hadn’t said we were in love.
But the store knew.
The floorboards beneath our steps knew.
The shelves remembered every inch we moved closer.