Fiction Shelves and Real Conversations
Zoey didn't mean to stay out so long.
It started with the bookstore.
Not even a conscious decision — more like muscle memory. Her feet took her there before her thoughts caught up. The old building tucked between the florist and the tailor, where the bell over the door had a slight delay and the floor creaked with a familiar protest.
The smell hit her first. Paper. Dust. A little mildew, but not in a bad way — just enough to remind her that these books had lived longer than some conversations.
She wandered the aisles slowly.
Not looking for anything. Just walking. Letting her mind drift through the silence like it had somewhere to go.
It didn't.
Not really.
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She paused in front of the "Contemporary Fiction" shelf and ran a finger along the spines like they were braille — like she could read something more honest in their wear and tear.
Her own book wasn't on this shelf. They kept Nymphaea under "Literary" or "Women's Fiction," depending on who was shelving that week. She didn't check.
Not today.
Instead, her hand settled on a novel she hadn't read in years. One that reminded her of high school — of train rides with earbuds in, the world sliding past in blurs of green and grey. She didn't buy it. Just held it for a moment. Then put it back gently, like it might shatter.
⸻
Outside, the sky was still heavy.
Rain had slowed to a mist that clung to everything without making a sound. The kind of weather that made people hold their breaths.
She liked that.
Liked the stillness of it. The way the world softened at the edges.
She walked without a destination, turning corners she didn't need to turn, just to stretch the quiet out a little longer.
Her phone buzzed once in her pocket.
She didn't check it.
⸻
By the time she passed the café again, her feet had started to ache. But she didn't go inside. Just stood across the street and looked at the windows glowing warm against the gloom.
She could see him.
Akash.
Cleaning something, or maybe just pretending to.
He looked like he always did — composed, thoughtful, a little distant. Like someone who didn't say everything he thought, but meant everything he said.
She wondered if he was still thinking about Elian. About her.
About what she hadn't said.
She didn't blame him if he was.
Secrets had a way of sitting between people even when they weren't spoken aloud.
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Later, at home, she made tea she wouldn't finish.
Her apartment felt quieter than usual. Not the comforting kind of quiet — the other kind. The kind that echoed too much. Reminded you of things you'd forgotten to say.
Zoey sat by the window with her knees pulled up and stared at the streetlights filtering through the rain.
She thought about Akash's voice. The way he said "I'm glad you came" like he didn't know what else to say but still meant it.
She thought about how careful he'd been with her.
How rare that felt.
She wondered what would happen if she told him.
Told him about the books. About Nymphaea. About the versions of herself she'd hidden in prose and buried under pen names.
She wasn't ready.
Not because she didn't trust him.
But because some truths asked for timing more than courage.
⸻
In the kitchen, her phone buzzed again.
She checked it this time.
It was Elian.
[ELIAN]: Hey. We still on for next week? Might bring Dev if that's okay.
She smiled. The smallest tug of her lips. Texted back.
[ZOEY]: Bring him. I owe him hot chocolate anyway.
No hearts. No punctuation.
Just her way.
Just enough.
⸻
Before bed, she opened the file she hadn't touched in three days.
Chapter 12. Still unfinished. A conversation between two characters who didn't know how to say what they meant but showed up anyway.
She re-read the last line.
"You keep walking in like you live here," he said.
"Maybe I do," she replied.
Zoey stared at the cursor blinking at the end of the sentence.
Then added a new line.
"Then why do you always leave?"
She saved the file and closed the laptop.
Left the rest for tomorrow.
For now, it was enough to have written something true.
Even if no one else read it.