The Thursday market was Elena's escape—a weekly ritual that gave color to the grayscale pages of her life. She didn't need much: just the hum of small talk, the sparkle of string lights draped across stalls, and the scent of rain-soaked earth mingling with roasted corn.
Tonight, though, the market felt different.
Maybe it was the subtle chill in the breeze. Maybe it was the way the lights seemed warmer, the music slower, softer. Or maybe it was the quiet hope that she might run into him again.
She didn't admit it to herself, not fully. But part of her had been thinking about Drew Carter since the moment he left the bookstore.
She paused at a stand selling hand-thrown pottery, fingers brushing the rim of a wide, uneven mug. It was painted in soft pastels, with stars falling across a pale blue sky.
"Mint tea?" a voice behind her said, low and familiar. "In that mug. That's what I see."
Elena turned—and there he was. Drew. In a navy sweater, jeans, and that same frayed camera strap slung across his shoulder. As if the week hadn't passed at all.
"You again," she said, blinking.
"Me again," he said, smiling. "I was hoping to run into you. Guess I got lucky."
Elena raised an eyebrow. "At a public market?"
"You'd be surprised how the universe works when it wants two people to meet."
She didn't reply right away. But her smile lingered.
He moved beside her, both of them facing the pottery now.
"Do you take photos of mugs, too?" she asked.
"Only when they're being held by interesting people."
She laughed, but it was small, nervous. "You're not going to photograph me, are you?"
"Not tonight," he said. "Tonight I'm just... here."
They walked slowly through the crowd. Drew asked about the market, the town, and eventually about her bookstore. She told him little things—how she'd inherited the shop from her aunt, how quiet days felt like comfort, not loneliness.
"I always thought bookstores were a bit like churches," he said. "People walk in looking for something—maybe not salvation, but a piece of themselves."
Elena turned to him, surprised. "That's... beautiful."
He shrugged. "Books do that. So do people, sometimes."
They reached a stall where a young boy handed an old woman a paper daisy. Drew lifted his camera gently, captured the moment with a soft click.
Elena watched. "You always carry it?"
"My camera?" he asked. "Yeah. It's like a second set of eyes. One that sees what my heart wants me to remember."
She didn't reply, but her chest fluttered.
A musician played a slow acoustic melody nearby. Drew handed her a warm paper cup of spiced cider he bought without asking. She accepted it, surprised by how natural it all felt.
"You don't talk like most people," she said.
"Good different or bad different?"
"Good," she said. "But unexpected."
"I like to notice things," he said, taking a sip from his own cup. "Especially things that try hard not to be noticed."
She looked at him then—not just a glance, but looked. There was a calm in his face. A quietness, like hers. But behind it, a flicker of something she couldn't name.
"Tell me something true," she said suddenly.
He didn't hesitate. "I'm tired of taking photos of strangers. I want to start remembering faces I care about."
Elena's heart stilled for a second.
"Now you," he said.
She hesitated. Then: "I haven't let anyone close in a long time. It's easier not to."
Drew didn't look surprised. He just nodded.
They wandered to the edge of the market, where the lights gave way to soft dark. The buzz of the crowd faded behind them.
"I used to write," she said. "Stories, poems. But I stopped."
"Why?"
"Because I was afraid of what it would reveal."
He turned to face her. "I think everything we do reveals something. The trick is to choose what you're okay showing."
They stood in silence for a beat.
"Want to walk me home?" she asked, barely louder than a whisper.
"I was hoping you'd ask."
The walk was short, quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket instead of pressing on your chest. Her apartment was tucked into a quiet street, the porch light flickering faintly above the steps.
"This is me," she said, fingers brushing her keys.
Drew stepped back, respectful. "Tonight was... unexpected."
She nodded. "In the best way."
He smiled, half-laughing. "Well, if I never see you again, thank you for the cider and the good conversation."
"I think you will," she said, softer than she meant.
Drew hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a small notepad. He scribbled something, tore the page, and handed it to her.
"Words I wanted you to have," he said.
She opened it after he walked away. It was a poem. Short, messy handwriting.
You were the quiet I didn't know I was searching for—
the kind that doesn't ask for attention,
only to be noticed.
She read it twice, three times. Then tucked it into her coat.
Back in her apartment, Elena stood by the window, mug of tea in hand, watching the distant flicker of market lights as they dimmed one by one.
Her world felt... tilted. But not in a chaotic way. It was the kind of tilt that happened when something once dormant started to stir—like spring beneath ice.
She took out the folded poem Drew had given her again. She hadn't realized how long it had been since someone had seen her without her needing to perform or explain.
And it unnerved her, how easily she'd let him in.
But it wasn't just that. It was the way his presence didn't demand. It invited.
She moved to the bookshelf, running a finger along a row of poetry volumes she rarely opened anymore. A few dog-eared pages peeked out, reminders of a version of herself she'd quietly packed away years ago.
Without thinking, she grabbed a notebook from the drawer, one she used for grocery lists and forgotten dreams. She flipped to a clean page, hesitated—then began to write.
I don't know what this is, but it's quiet and warm.
Like dusk wrapped in a sweater.
Like someone turning a page and finding me.
She stared at the words for a long time.
Somewhere, in another life, she might have shared them. Tonight, she just needed to know she could still feel them.
A soft knock startled her.
She turned, confused. It was late. No one visited her this late.
She cracked the door open—just enough to see.
A single paper flower sat on the mat. White, folded perfectly, petals etched with the words: See you soon.
Her breath hitched.
No signature. No note. Just the flower and the message.
She stepped outside, glanced both ways. The street was still. No footsteps, no fading silhouette.
But he'd been here.
Not to chase. Just to leave a trace.
Back inside, she placed the flower beside her tea. She sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, heart beating slower now—but stronger.
She hadn't expected any of this.
Not to see him again.
Not to let him in.
Not to want to see him again.
But here she was. Notebook open. Poem written. Smile small, but real.
And that quiet voice inside her—the one that had gone silent for too long—whispered something she hadn't let herself feel in years:
Hope.