Chapter Ten: Between the Lines
The morning started with a lazy sunbeam pushing through my half-open curtains, landing squarely on my eyes like it had a personal vendetta. I groaned, rolled over, and nearly sent my phone tumbling off the nightstand in my scramble to check the time.
8:47 a.m.
Late, but not catastrophic.
I padded to the kitchen, hair a mess, socks mismatched, and flicked on the kettle. The radio in the corner was playing something upbeat—too upbeat for someone who hadn't yet had caffeine—but I let it run.
By the time the tea was steeping, I'd already decided on my outfit: soft jeans, white blouse, hair up in a messy bun that looked less intentional than I hoped. Today wasn't about looking perfect. Today was about keeping busy.
Because keeping busy meant fewer chances for my mind to wander to him.
Well, that was the theory, anyway.
By ten, I was at the small bookstore near campus. The owner, Mrs. Dalton, had the sort of face that seemed to have been carved out of kindness. She wore a navy cardigan, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and she greeted me with the same warmth she gave every customer—even though she knew I wasn't here to buy anything.
"Back again?" she said, arching an eyebrow.
"Books smell better than my flat," I said with a shrug.
"Mm. That they do."
I wandered between the shelves, fingers tracing spines without really reading the titles. It was comforting—the quiet, the faint scent of old pages, the hum of the tiny heater by the counter.
And then—just like that—he was there.
Not in the flesh, not exactly. But his presence crept in the way certain words on a page caught my eye, the way my chest tightened at the sight of a title we'd once discussed in passing. I hated that he could slip into my day like that, uninvited but entirely unavoidable.
"Find something good?" Mrs. Dalton's voice snapped me back.
I blinked and realised I'd been staring at the same poetry collection for a solid two minutes. "Maybe," I said, and tucked it under my arm like it had been my plan all along.
From there, I made my way to a café two streets over. A new place—sleek, minimal, all blond wood and hanging plants. The barista was painfully young and grinned like he'd just been told a secret.
"Flat white?" he guessed before I'd even spoken.
"Do I look that predictable?" I asked.
"Not predictable. Consistent." He winked and slid the cup toward me a few minutes later, foam swirled into something vaguely heart-shaped.
I found a seat by the window, sipped slowly, and tried to pretend my phone wasn't burning a hole in my pocket. I'd told myself I wouldn't check it. I'd even sworn it. But when a group of students at the next table started laughing—really laughing—it reminded me of our laugh. The easy kind. The kind you didn't plan for.
And just like that, I was thinking about him again.
It wasn't all bad, though. There was a new layer to it now. Less ache, more curiosity. Wondering not just who he was, but how he fit into the world outside of these invisible lines we'd drawn.
By mid-afternoon, I'd abandoned the idea of staying indoors. The weather had decided to flirt with spring, so I walked along the river, watching the sunlight spark on the water's surface. At one point, a gust of wind nearly sent my scarf into the Thames, and a stranger caught it just in time.
"Close one," he said with a grin.
"Thanks. I'd have mourned that scarf."
It was playful, harmless. And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I compared the way this stranger's eyes crinkled at the corners to the way his might. It wasn't fair—to the stranger or to myself—but it happened anyway.
By the time I got home, I'd clocked in over twelve thousand steps and exactly zero progress on not thinking about him. My kettle hissed impatiently as I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and made tea for the second time that day.
That's when my phone buzzed.
A single message. Not from him, but from Maisie.
Guess who I saw today.
I hesitated before typing: Tell me.
Her reply was instantaneous. Tall, dark hair, looks like he's hiding something? Your mystery man?
My pulse skipped. Where?
Outside the record shop on Merton Street. He was alone. Looked… I don't know. Like he was waiting for someone.
I stared at the screen until the tea went cold.
It could've been coincidence. It could've been nothing. But Maisie didn't know about him. She couldn't have made the connection unless… unless fate—or whatever passed for fate in this city—was trying to stir the pot.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted the pot stirred.
I told myself I wouldn't go. That the sensible thing would be to make dinner, curl up with my new poetry book, and let the evening slide quietly into night.
But sensible wasn't exactly my strong suit these days.
By six, I was walking toward Merton Street. I told myself I wasn't looking for him—I was just curious about the record shop Maisie had mentioned. That was the line I fed myself, anyway.
The shop was small, with a neon sign that flickered like it was shy. Inside, rows of vinyl records stood like soldiers, their glossy covers catching the light. A man with a man-bun and a wool sweater stood behind the counter, nodding to the beat of something soft and jazzy.
No sign of him.
I should've felt relieved. Instead, I wandered the aisles with a gnawing sense of disappointment.
Then, in the reflection of a display case, I saw him.
He was standing near the back, half-hidden by a shelf, thumbing through a stack of records with casual precision. His profile caught the dim light—a sharp jaw, a faint shadow of stubble, eyes focused but distant.
I froze.
It had been weeks since I'd seen him in person. Letters and brief encounters had been the extent of our connection, but seeing him there—real, tangible, just a few steps away—was something else entirely.
I considered walking up to him. I considered pretending I hadn't seen him. What I didn't consider was him looking up and catching me staring.
His lips quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite neutral. Then he tilted his head, as if inviting me over.
I should've walked away. I didn't.
"You have a thing for old music?" I asked when I reached him. My voice was lighter than I felt.
"Something like that," he said, sliding a record back into place. "You?"
"I'm more of a books-over-records person. But I can appreciate both."
We stood there, neither of us moving, the air between us charged in a way that made my skin hum.
"Funny," he said finally, "I didn't think I'd see you here."
"Coincidence," I said. "Maybe."
His eyes searched mine for something, though I couldn't tell what. "Or maybe not."
We talked in circles for a few more minutes—about nothing, really. Music, the weather, the odd smell of the place (a mix of dust and cedar, for the record). But under the surface, there was something else. A question neither of us dared to ask.
When he left, it was with a nod that felt like a bookmark—like this wasn't the end, just a pause in the story.
---
Back at home, I tossed my coat on the chair and fell onto the sofa. My phone buzzed again.
Maisie.
So?
I typed back: You were right. I saw him.
Her reply came quick: And?
I stared at the blinking cursor. What could I say? That standing next to him felt like holding a secret? That I wasn't sure if I wanted to solve the mystery or just live inside it for a little longer?
In the end, I wrote: And nothing. For now.
But in my chest, the truth was louder. It wasn't nothing. It was everything.
I left the record shop with the sleeve tucked under my arm, not because I wanted it, but because it had passed through his hands.
The air outside was brisk, smelling faintly of roasted chestnuts from the vendor on the corner. I took the long way home, weaving through narrow streets lined with little cafés and flower shops spilling tulips onto the pavement. My phone buzzed twice in my pocket, but I didn't check it.
My mind was still inside that shop, replaying the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his fingertips, the way his voice had settled under my skin.
I ducked into a café I hadn't been to before—half curiosity, half an excuse to sit and breathe. It was small, with mismatched chairs and a fogged-up window that made the street outside look like a watercolor. I ordered tea I didn't really want and pulled the record out of its paper bag.
It was an album of old love songs. The kind of tracks people slow danced to in dark rooms long after the party had ended. I ran my fingers over the track list, trying not to read too much into it, and failed spectacularly.
The bell over the door chimed.
I looked up—and there he was. Not in a dream, not in memory. Just… there.
"You following me now?" I asked, trying for teasing, though my voice landed somewhere closer to breathless.
"Maybe I just like this café," he said, shrugging out of his coat. "Or maybe you're not as hard to find as you think."
He didn't sit across from me. He sat next to me, his shoulder brushing mine again, and the closeness made the tiny café feel even smaller.
We talked—about music, about the way London looks better in the rain, about nothing and everything. Somewhere between the second and third sip of tea, he reached across the table, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear without asking. The gesture was so gentle, so sure, I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence.
He smiled at that—slow, knowing—and leaned back like he'd just tested something and gotten the answer he wanted.
When I finally left, the record was still under my arm, but it felt heavier, as though it carried more than music now.
That night, I played the album. And I thought about how sometimes, you meet someone in the middle of an ordinary day, and everything shifts just enough for you to feel it in your bones.