I wake up early the next morning, the city still quiet under a blanket of fog. The kind of fog that makes everything feel distant, like the world's a little softer. Or maybe it's just me, trying to make sense of the strange stirrings that have been hanging in the back of my mind since yesterday.
I don't know why I can't stop thinking about it—the book, those words.
I pull it out from my bag as I sip my coffee. It's the same place, the same small café I've spent so many mornings in. But today, everything feels different. More personal. Like there's something between me and the rest of the world that I can't quite reach.
The book is in my hands, and I can't help but read the first line again:
"If you listen long enough, you'll start to recognize the silence between words."
There's something about it that lingers. Not just in my mind, but in the pit of my stomach. It feels like I'm hearing someone's voice, but it's not a voice I can place. It's faint, almost like an echo of something I'm meant to remember. But the harder I think about it, the more distant it becomes.
I flip through the pages. It's strange, really. The book is written in such a delicate, almost fragile way. Every line feels like a whisper, soft and careful, but still resonating deeply. I know that whoever wrote this—whoever wrote these words—has to understand something I don't. Something that only comes from the weight of quiet thoughts.
It's almost frustrating. I want to understand it, to get to the bottom of it, but it's elusive. I can't pin it down. Not yet.
I pull my phone out and check my messages, but there's nothing new. No comment, no response from her. It's almost like she's intentionally leaving me to figure it out myself.
I'm not sure why that frustrates me. But it does.
•
Work drags on, slower than usual. The same faces, the same conversations, the same customers. The same motions. And yet, in the back of my mind, I can't shake the feeling that something is missing. That the rhythm of my day is just a little bit off. And I know exactly why.
I haven't figured out who she is.
Not yet.
It's strange, how a few words can create such an impression. But I'm starting to realize that it's not just the words that matter. It's the person behind them. There's a subtle kind of presence in those words, an unmistakable pull. I want to know who she is, but it feels like I'm not supposed to know.
I walk into the bookshop later that evening, the weight of the book heavy in my hand. The same shop I've wandered through countless times before, but today it feels different. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm looking for something I didn't expect to find.
The usual spots are filled with people—some flipping through old books, others casually browsing—but I'm not here for any of that today.
I head to the book exchange corner again. The table is still there, stacked with books of every shape and size, each one left behind by someone who doesn't expect anything in return. And yet, there's a feeling here, a lingering sense of unfinished stories. Of connections that don't quite happen, of people who are still reaching.
I place the book down on the table. I don't know why. It's as if I'm trying to give it back, but not really. Maybe it's just an excuse to keep it close for a little while longer.
I hover for a moment, just looking at the books around me. There's something in the air here, something that feels like anticipation. But it's not about the books. It's about the people who leave them behind. The ones who expect nothing in return, the ones who don't need to be seen to make their mark.
I catch myself just standing there, lost in thought.
•
"Excuse me," a voice says, pulling me from my reverie.
I turn to find a young woman standing a few feet away. Her hair is dark, almost black, and her eyes gleam with an intensity I can't quite explain. She's holding a book in her hands, but she's looking at me, not the books.
"Sorry to interrupt," she continues, her voice steady but with something uncertain in it. "I noticed you're looking at the books over there. Did you find anything interesting?"
I hesitate for a second, feeling the pull of something familiar. The way her words flow, the way her gaze lingers just a moment longer than expected—it's not unfamiliar. I've heard this tone before. Somewhere, in a place I can't quite put my finger on.
"Just… looking," I reply, trying to keep my voice casual, but I feel the edge of something else in it. The desire to say more, to ask her if she's ever read something that felt like it was left there just for her.
She smiles, the kind of smile that feels half-hidden, like there's something more behind it that she's not saying. "I always feel like I'm looking for a part of myself in these books. It's strange, isn't it? To think they could somehow speak to you."
I blink, caught off guard. Her words hit me harder than I expect. Something about them feels too familiar. Like she knows exactly how I've been feeling.
"Yeah," I manage to say, my voice quieter now. "It's strange."
She pauses, as if weighing her next words carefully, before turning her attention to the table behind me. "I think I've found a few books like that, books that make you feel like they're saying something important. But not all of them do. Some of them just… fade away."
I look at her, not quite sure why I'm paying so much attention to her words. But I can't stop myself. Something about her feels like the missing piece of a puzzle I've been trying to solve.
"You think so?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Her smile widens, but there's something almost sad about it. "Maybe. It's hard to tell. But sometimes, the books that seem the least important are the ones that change you the most."
And with that, she turns, slipping between the shelves and disappearing into the rows of books.
I stand there for a moment, trying to process what just happened. But it's hard. Because for a brief second, I could have sworn that she was talking about something else entirely.
•
I leave the bookshop feeling more uncertain than when I arrived. The book still rests in my bag, but it feels different now. Heavier, like I'm carrying more than just paper and ink.
And somehow, I feel like I'm still chasing after something. Someone. But I'm not sure who.