Two Blocks, Then Gone
Rain makes the city feel smaller, as if every streetlight is leaning in to listen. That night I ducked into a little bookstore that stayed open late, the kind that smelled like paper, dust, and coffee reheated one time too many.
I was pretending to read when a voice beside me said, softly, “Are you actually going to buy that, or do you just need an excuse not to go home?”
I turned. She stood with a dripping umbrella, hair slightly damp, eyes steady in a way that felt rare. Her smile wasn’t bold—it was careful, like she’d learned what hope can cost and kept it anyway.
“You caught me,” I admitted, surprised by how easy honesty felt between quiet shelves.
We talked in the narrow aisle about stories people keep for themselves, about songs that only make sense after midnight, about the strange relief of being seen without having to ask. She offered her name as if it were a small secret. When she asked for mine, it sounded like it mattered.
When the clerk announced closing time, we stepped outside together. The cold air touched my skin like a reminder. Her sleeve brushed mine—brief, accidental, and somehow intimate because neither of us moved away.
At the bus stop, we stood under a streetlamp while the rain fell patiently. In that warm yellow light her face looked softer, and I found myself memorizing details I didn’t deserve to keep: the pause before she smiled, the way she breathed in before laughing, the quiet weight in her gaze.
“I’m not usually like this,” she said.
“Me neither,” I lied, or maybe I didn’t. I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that a part of me wanted to believe the night had chosen us on purpose.
She stepped a little closer, close enough for me to feel her warmth through the damp air. I didn’t touch her. I was afraid of hurrying something fragile. But when she looked up, her eyes suggested the distance between us wasn’t a rule—just a question.
“Do you believe,” she asked, “that someone can feel familiar even when they’re new?”
The question cracked something open in my chest. “I want to,” I said. “But I’m scared.”
She nodded as if she understood too well.
Then her phone vibrated.
The screen’s pale glow changed her expression—subtle, immediate, like a door closing without a sound. She smiled again, but it didn’t reach all the way.
“I… I have to go,” she murmured, already stepping back.
I waited for an explanation, a promise, even a gentle lie we could both share. Instead, she touched my wrist for a second—warmth pressed into my skin—then let go.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m glad I met you.”
“I’m glad too,” I answered, and it hurt because it was true.
She raised her hand in a small, uncertain goodbye and turned the corner into the rain. I stood under the shelter long after she disappeared, feeling the shape of hope still lingering—like heat in a seat someone has just left.
When the bus finally came, my reflection looked more tender than I expected. I leaned my forehead to the cold window and let the city slide past in blurred lights, realizing how quickly a heart can reach—how suddenly it can be left holding nothing but the courage it took to try.
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