Chapter 2: The Boy with the Bookstore Smile
The next morning, I woke up thinking about him.
I didn't even know his name. Just the sound of his voice, the way his smile felt warm without trying, and how quiet everything seemed around him — like the world slowed down when he spoke.
I'd planned to draw that day. I had sketches due, a list of commissions I'd promised myself I'd finish. But instead, I made tea, sat by the window, and stared at the little blue poetry book I'd bought. The one with the pressed flower inside.
He'd slipped it in without saying a word. It was pale and small, probably old — but still soft, like it had been carefully kept. I hadn't noticed it until I got home.
Why would someone do that for a stranger?
I read the first poem slowly. The words felt personal. Like something meant for someone who needed to be reminded that they weren't alone.
I didn't mean to go back. Not so soon.
But by late afternoon, I was walking the same street again. It had stopped raining, but the air was cool and clean, and the bookstore — A Chapter More — was just as quiet as before. Like it hadn't moved in years.
The door opened with the same gentle chime.
He looked up from behind the counter, and when he saw me, his face lit up — not with surprise, but something softer. Like he'd hoped I would come back.
"You again," he said.
I smiled. "Me again."
"Welcome back."
I stepped inside fully. "I started reading the poetry. It was… nice."
"Glad you liked it." He paused. "Did you see the flower?"
I nodded. "Yeah. That was… thoughtful."
He shrugged, a little shyly. "Sometimes I find them in old books. I like to pass them along."
"I think I'll keep it," I said quietly.
He smiled at that. The bookstore was quiet, no other customers today. Just me and him and the gentle sound of pages turning somewhere in the back.
We didn't talk for a while. I wandered between the shelves again, not looking for anything in particular. Sometimes I glanced over at him, and I'd catch him watching me too. But not in a weird way — more like he was making sure I felt okay.
I picked up a book about art — old techniques, charcoal sketches, simple covers. He noticed.
"You draw?" he asked.
"Yeah. I mean, I try. Mostly for myself."
"That's cool." He paused. "Do you sketch people?"
"Not often. I'm better with still life. Windows. Coffee cups. Bookstores."
He laughed, and it made me feel good. I hadn't heard that sound yesterday. It was light and easy.
"You should draw this place sometime," he said.
"Maybe I will."
He watched me for a moment, then said, "I'm Leo, by the way."
I looked up.
"Emma."
He nodded. "Nice to meet you officially."
It was strange how easy it felt. Like we weren't strangers at all. Like we were just continuing a conversation we'd started a long time ago, even if yesterday had been the first time we met.
I brought the art book to the counter.
"Second book already," he said.
"I'm a fast reader," I replied.
He grinned, then glanced at the cover. "This one's a good choice. I flipped through it a few times."
"Do you draw?"
"A little," he said, a bit shyly. "I draw sometimes. Not great, but I like it."
I felt something stir inside me at that. A small thing. Warm and quiet.
He handed me the book, and our fingers brushed for half a second. My stomach flipped a little. Silly, really. Just skin touching skin. But it felt like more.
I held the book close to my chest and hesitated.
"I don't mean to be nosy," I said slowly, "but… are you okay?"
His smile faded, just slightly. He looked down, then back at me. "Yeah. Why?"
"I don't know. You seem…" I paused. "A little sad."
He didn't speak right away. The bookstore was silent again, and I wondered if I'd crossed a line. But then he gave me a small, honest nod.
"I guess I've had my share of bad days," he said.
I wanted to say something comforting, but I didn't know how. I wasn't good at things like that — not with people I didn't know. Not even with people I did.
"Same here," I said instead. "A lot of them."
That made him look at me differently. Softer. Not pity, not curiosity. Just… understanding.
"Well," he said, his voice low, "this place helps with that. For me, at least."
"It kind of helps for me too."
We stood there in that quiet warmth — two people who didn't know each other well but somehow understood each other just enough.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I needed to run.
I just stood there, with a book in my hand, a pressed flower in my bag, and the boy with the bookstore smile in front of me.