Seeing him there made all the awkwardness—every anxious hour of waiting, every restless plan, every fumbled moment—suddenly feel worth it. She entered quietly and took a seat in the fourth row, notebook in hand, heart barely steady. It was empty except for her. A few minutes later, a friend joined her and took the seat beside her, but for a brief stretch of time, she sat in silence, alone with her thoughts and the electric awareness of his presence just a few feet away.
Toward the end of the session, the instructor invited everyone to take part in a silence session. His voice softened, coaxing calmness into the room. He asked them to let go—to clear their minds, to feel nothing but breath and stillness. But she couldn't. Her hands fidgeted in her lap. Her thoughts raced louder with every inhale. Beneath the surface, her entire body was buzzing. She wanted to leave, to escape the unbearable pressure of being still when all she felt was movement inside.
The lecture itself had been gentle, insightful even. But the quiet—the deliberate stillness of meditation—had undone her.
When the session ended, everyone was invited to the another room for some snacks. He was there too, and the sight of him sent her nerves spinning again. She couldn't bring herself to walk toward the table—not while he was standing right beside it. Her hands felt too visible. Her steps too loud. So, she stayed behind, pretending ease, and asked her friend to get her a cup instead.
But something else was pressing on her chest: the note.
She had left a note earlier, slipped carefully into his notebook when no one was watching. A moment of courage—now, a source of panic. She needed it back. Quickly. Quietly. Before anyone noticed.
She excused herself, slipped back into the space where their bags had been left, and pulled the folded paper from between the pages. She tucked it into her coat pocket and rejoined the others, her secret safely reclaimed.
As the discussion wound down and people began to leave, she gathered her things slowly. She wanted to wait. Just a little. Just enough to maybe say something. To not let this day end in silence. She hovered, unsure.
And then he came over—to collect his bag.
She hadn't meant to stare. But her eyes lingered just a second too long. He noticed.
He looked at her, his expression open, a little amused. "The session today was nice, right?"
She blinked, startled, and nodded. "Yes," she said softly, her voice barely catching up to her thoughts.
He turned, ready to leave.
But something in her refused to let the moment slip away.
"Can I ask what your favourite book is?" she blurted out—awkward, unfiltered, but real.
He paused, surprised. Then smiled and gave her an answer, simple and warm.