A Lingering Echo

The station was quieter than usual, its late-night hush broken only by the faint hum of a departing train. Amara leaned against a stone pillar, its coolness seeping through her coat as she stared at her phone. The message was typed out, simple and unremarkable: Made it home. Her thumb hovered over the send button, a familiar tightness coiling in her chest. It wasn't a big deal—just a courtesy, something Noah had asked for as they'd parted. And yet, it felt like more. She remembered nights years ago, texting someone else those same words, the routine of it turning sour when the replies stopped coming. She'd sworn off small promises after that, afraid of where they led.

She sighed, the sound swallowed by the empty platform, and pressed send. The screen dimmed, and a moment later, it buzzed.

Noah: Good. Hope you didn't let the rain win.

A smirk tugged at her lips as she typed back, It tried, but I held my ground.

His reply came fast. Knew you would.

She stared at the words, their certainty catching her off guard. Too long, she realized, before pocketing the phone and heading home. Sleep came fitfully, the rain's soft echo threading through her dreams.

Morning broke with a cleansed city, the streets gleaming under a tentative sun. Amara walked to work, her pace slower than usual, the air sharp with damp pavement and the bitter tang of coffee drifting from cafes. She lingered at crosswalks, watching strangers bustle past, their umbrellas folded now that the sky had relented. The quiet felt fragile, like it might shatter under the weight of the day ahead.

At the office, she'd barely settled at her desk when Edith's head popped over the partition, mischief glinting in her eyes. "Sooo," she drawled, "how was your second unplanned rendezvous with Noah?"

Amara rolled her eyes, clicking her computer awake. "It was coffee, Edith. People drink it. No conspiracy here."

"Uh-huh," Edith said, resting her chin on her hands. "Did you text him when you got home like a good little commuter?"

Amara's fingers faltered on the keyboard, a beat too long. Edith's eyes widened. "Oh my God, you did."

"Keep your voice down," Amara hissed, glancing at the open-plan office. "Yes, I texted him. He asked me to. It's not a big deal."

Edith leaned closer, grinning. "When's the last time you let someone in like that, huh? You don't text back unless you're hooked."

"I'm not hooked," Amara snapped, rubbing her temples. "I don't know what this is, okay? It's—" She exhaled, softer now. "It's just… there."

"For now," Edith said, smug as ever, before retreating with a wink.

Amara turned to her emails, pretending the exchange hadn't rattled her. But Edith's words lingered, a splinter she couldn't pull free.

That evening, restlessness drove her back to the bookstore. She hadn't planned it—at least, that's what she told herself as she pushed through the door, the bell's chime swallowed by the murmur of shelves. Work had been a slog, her mind circling Noah's texts, Edith's prodding, the way the rain felt less heavy lately. The store's glow promised refuge, its scent of paper and ink a balm she craved.

And then, there was Noah.

He leaned against a shelf in the fiction section, flipping through a book with that same unhurried focus she'd come to recognize. Her breath hitched, but she stepped closer, voice light. "You're not stalking me, are you?"

He glanced up, his smile instant, as if he'd half-expected her. "Would it ruin my charm if I said yes?"

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "It might tarnish it a little."

"Then I'll say no." He snapped the book shut, tucking it under his arm. "You?"

"Maybe I just like books," she said, crossing her arms with a playful tilt of her head.

"Good," he replied, brushing past her toward the register. "Then you'll like this one."

Curiosity tugged her after him. "What is it?"

He held it up—a collection of short stories, literary and strange, meant to unravel slowly. "You're really committed to making me a lover of slow reads, huh?"

He grinned, handing cash to the clerk. "Only if it works."

She glanced toward the poetry section, where they'd traded books days ago. It felt different now, layered with meaning she hadn't asked for. Outside, the air was thick with the ghost of rain, the pavement slick under their feet. Noah turned to her, hands in his pockets, his voice softer. "You hungry?"

She hesitated, the question heavier than it sounded. He shifted, just slightly, as if he felt it too. "Depends," she said at last. "Are you picking?"

"Of course," he said, smirking, and they fell into step, the city sprawling before them. The night felt warmer, the rain's echo a quiet hum in her bones—not a weight, but a pulse, nudging her forward.