Chapter Eleven: The Word Itself
The shop was quieter than usual — no customers, no storm, just a soft hum of something waiting.
You were cataloging new arrivals. I was pretending to help.
At some point, I stopped pretending.
Sat down. Watched you move.
You noticed. Of course you did.
But you didn’t ask what I was doing.
You just said, without looking up,
“You stare at me like I’m a story.”
“You are,” I said. “But I think I’ve stopped reading. I’m just… here now. Inside it.”
That made you pause.
Fingers resting lightly on a book’s spine.
Then, so soft I nearly missed it:
“I love you.”
No fanfare. No trembling.
Just a fact laid gently between us —
like a bookmark, finally set down.
I stood. Crossed the space between us in three quiet steps.
Pressed my forehead to yours.
And whispered,
“I already knew. But thank you for saying it.”