It was another gray morning, the kind Eli secretly prayed for. The rain had softened into a mist that kissed the windows of the bookshop, painting the streets in silvery shades. He arrived early, unlocking the door with the same careful grace he used for everything in life. He brewed his coffee—black as always—and set Miles Davis spinning on the old record player.
The smell of paper, old and new, settled around him like a second skin.
The world outside bustled, unaware. But for Eli, time slowed inside the bookshop. And then, it stopped.
Because she walked in.She wasn't supposed to be here—not in his world of dust motes and poetry—but life had its own quiet way of leading people exactly where they needed to be.
She stepped in from the drizzle, pulling back her hood, her eyes scanning the cozy space. And when those eyes met his…
Eli froze.
His gaze met hers, and suddenly the jazz disappeared. The warmth of the mug vanished. The entire world slipped into stillness.
Her eyes.
They weren't just beautiful. They were everything.
He melted in them. For him, they weren't just eyes—they were a mirror, a mystery, a memory he hadn't lived yet.
And he couldn't look away.
His thoughts began to whisper, unbidden, as he stood frozen behind the counter:
They say eyes are windows to the soul,
But hers are more—
A storm paused in motion,
A question I've waited my whole life to answer.
Her silence speaks in volumes,
And suddenly, every page I've read feels like it was written for this moment.
She didn't even know why she'd come in. The rain was too steady to walk through, and the shop window—lit warmly, promising a different kind of quiet—had drawn her in. She liked quiet. Liked spaces where no one expected her to be anything other than present.
But she hadn't expected him.
The man behind the counter, watching her like he knew her silence. He wasn't striking in the usual sense. But there was something in his eyes—a softness that didn't ask questions, a stillness that invited trust.
She gave him a polite nod and wandered toward the shelves. Her fingers skimmed the spines. A poetry section, tucked into the far corner, called to her.
Eli watched. Not in a way that felt invasive, but with a curiosity so genuine it softened the air between them. He noticed everything—the subtle way her shoulders relaxed when she found the poetry section, the brief smile that ghosted her lips as she turned a page.
He had never noticed people this way before. Only her.
I didn't know her name,
But I wrote it anyway.
Not in letters—
But in pauses between breath,
In the way the light curved around her profile,
In how she made silence feel like a language.
He wanted to speak. Say something simple—ask if she needed help. But he hesitated. She was too poised, too perfectly self-contained. What if he shattered the peace she clearly carried like armor?
Instead, he watched her flip open a small volume of poetry.
Alina traced the pages like they held her own secrets. The edges of her lips curled ever so slightly.
He noticed it.
He noticed everything about her.
Not the city. Not the customers who trickled in. Just her.
She didn't buy a book. She simply read for ten quiet minutes, left the poetry open on a stand, and turned toward the door.
Before she stepped out, she looked back at him.
Just once.
And smiled.
It wasn't much.
But for Eli—it was everything.
He watched the door even after she was gone, hoping it might open again. His hands moved by habit, cleaning, shelving, organizing. But his thoughts stayed with her.
That night, he sat by the window in his small apartment, the city lights blurring behind fogged-up glass. He opened his journal and let his pen move on its own:
She came in with the rain,
And left a storm inside me.
She didn't say a word,
But I heard her—
In every pause between my heartbeat,
In every book I touched afterward.
Maybe this is how it starts,
Not with fireworks or fate,
But with a glance,
And a man who can't stop writing about her.