Everyone, at some point in their lives, have walked into an old bookstore in hopes they’d be swept away by secret magic, right?

But I wasn’t expecting that today when my friends, Laurie, Hunter and I, entered the small bookstore we used to pass by on our way to our university. Back during our first year, anyway, when we lived in a student accommodation. Now we lived elsewhere, in our third and final year.

So we might as well finally give this store a visit.

Hunter and I adored books—so much so that I already had my own book to read, and he picked out four different ones from the shelves. Laurie, on the other hand, was still deciding.

“I don’t want anything romantic.” Was what she told me. It was understandable, especially knowing the stories she told me about men she met.

I felt the same way after my own experiences. Romance; unnecessarily arbitrary. And men, unnecessarily… ugh.

“How about this?” I suggested, pointing to a book on the shelf of the most well-known books. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, since you like Disney?”

“Hmm…” Laurie hummed in high-pitched, disapproving reluctance. Picking up on her tone, I tried another book.

“You could read Little Women! It has a bit of romance in it, but the main character kinda fights it off like—“

“I already saw the movie.”

“Oh.”

The last book I read was Serendipity. The book before that was The Song of Achilles. Both were romance, albeit my ick for it. But what could I say? They were so well-written, in my opinion.

I fell silent, and shrugged, unsure what to suggest, so I joined Hunter on the bench and began to read. Laurie sat with us and ended up browsing Instagram instead.

The bench was crescent-shaped, lining a large window along the wall of the second floor that overlooked the street. I fell into the world of The Illustrated Man, my gaze waltzing with the words along the pages for a whole hour.

But then it happened.

And it’s ironic, really. I mean, they always say it happens when you least expect it.

A man walked into the room, and I glanced up at him briefly. He sat down to my left, a pillow away from me. I saw it all from the corner of my eye—he leaned back, raising his leg for his ankle to rest on his other leg’s knee. And he opened a book’s first page.

I continued reading, but he kept glancing at me. I didn’t dare look up from my book. What if we made eye contact? Terrifying.

But, the pillow between us was slowly falling off the bench, and I knew that after it would’ve fallen, we would likely make eye contact. And that made me excited.

I know it was contradictory.

Throughout the next hour, I noticed the pillow falling ever so slowly in my peripheral. And yes, it did indeed take an hour for it to fall. I partly wanted to give it a little nudge, but I refrained.

“I’m leaving now,” Laurie suddenly said to Hunter and I, standing up and coming up to us.

“Oh, okay, bye! Thanks for coming,” Hunter smiled sweetly.

“Bye, take care, Laurie,” I added gently, looking up at her with a kind expression as I pretended not to notice the man watching our interaction with what I presumed was curiosity.

It was my “American” accent, wasn’t it? I mean, the way I saw it, it was everyone else that had the accent. But I guess this was what I signed up for with studying abroad in England.

More minutes of reading passed. Peaceful silence fell fast. I couldn’t tell how long it had been, but I noticed the man continuously checking his phone for the time. Hunter checked his own phone too. So I did the same at one point. I returned to my book, engrossed with the contents, absorbed and—

It fell.

As suspenseful as the silence, and as cliché as someone in love, the pillow fell.

At last, we made eye contact. I could feel my body tensing up in nervous anticipation as my book’s pages slightly creased under my thumbs. He had dirty blonde hair, a black hoodie, a single silver earring, and a look on his face that made him seem speechless. I could see it in his eyes, in that split second looking for something to say, breath caught in his throat as if he was waiting a whole hour for this moment too.

“Was that me?” He finally said with an awkward huff of a chuckle, faulting himself for the pillow’s fall. A beat passed before I could reply.

“Oh, um…” I glanced down at the pillow and laughed lightly. “Well, it was probably going to fall eventually.” And he laughed too. Oh, god, his laugh.

It really was going to fall for him eventually. Inevitably. I could relate.

I could feel Hunter’s eyes on me, though. He was my best friend and roommate, but I felt so embarrassed to be seen so flustered. Could he tell?

“It’s strange. We’ve been sitting together for an hour, and even though we haven’t said a word to each other until now, there still feels like a connection,” He smiled warmly.

“Yeah,” I said almost breathlessly.

He did not just say that.

“Yeah,” I repeated again, more audibly. I chuckled and added, “I feel the same.”

“Exactly! You know, it’s like…” His sentence drifted away, his wording losing its footing. “Ah, uh, I forgot what I was going to say.” He smiled sheepishly, shyly rubbing the back of his neck. It was so endearing.

“No worries, that happens a lot to me too!”

We began talking about the books we were reading, and Hunter joined the conversation. Hunter was reading a book about grief. I was reading a book about a person with tattoos that came to life.

And the man? He was reading a romance novel. Because of course he would, universe. Thanks, universe. Jeez, universe.

I couldn’t remember the title, but it was a fictional story about love letters someone wrote.

I joked about starting a book club, and he said there was actually a poster about it over there. I leaned in to see it from his point of view, and he read it out loud. It said something along the lines of “stop your search everyone, the book club is right here!”

“I guess we can stop looking then,” I shrugged and giggled.

“Yeah,” The man replied, “It looks like we found everything we’re looking for here.”

Then he looked at me like *that.*

Yes, like *that.*

At the end of our conversation, I asked Hunter if we were still going to Tesco in an hour like we planned, to which he said yes. The man glanced up at that.

I continued reading my book, smiling like an idiot. It took me a whole page and a half of reading until I finally could stop smiling a bit.

This time, I dared to glance up when he started talking into his phone after half an hour. He answered it as it buzzed. He explained how he was in a book store and reading an entire book, as if he hadn’t done this before. And he only had five pages left of the book, so he’d call them back after.

Five pages left. Five. I pretended to keep reading as I tried to figure out the last thing I wanted to say to him. I rehearsed it in my head countless times. Introduce myself, get his name, exchange contacts.

I didn’t end up doing any of that.

He had to leave in a rush. But, before he left, he jokingly said, “see you next week for book club!”

That day, Hunter and I walked back to our shared flat after the Tesco trip, where he was rambling excitedly about his uni project. I always listen to his rambles, I love hearing him talk. But this time, my head was up in the clouds. On the ninth one.

I didn’t tell Hunter about how I felt about the man, but perhaps he knew something was up. Like in the way I’d listen to my romance playlist on Spotify non-stop. I just couldn’t wait for “book club.”

Sunday.

Monday, school.

Tuesday, school again.

Wednesday, I began to feel the nerves.

Thursday, I went out with my friends.

And now, on Friday, I couldn’t help but prepare my outfit for tomorrow. For an event I wasn’t even sure was going to happen. Because, it wasn’t a guarantee. What if he was just joking? What if I didn’t seem interested enough? What if he didn’t show up?

What if he did?

After preparing for bed, I promised myself I would enjoy myself no matter what happened. At least I’d still have Ray Bradbury, and his book about tattoos. At least I’d still have Hunter, who I had plans with to infiltrate our rival university’s library with on Sunday. At least I’d still have Laurie, who I could tell this story to and complain about men to.

I sighed softly, closed my eyes, and rested my head on my pillow, like the one that fell, like me.