If only...

Chapter 6

The days that followed began to blur into a rhythm I hadn't anticipated. Will's visits to the bookshop became more frequent, and each one brought with it a subtle shift in the dynamics of my day. Initially, his appearances were sporadic, arriving unpredictably and often catching me off guard. But soon, it seemed as though he had woven himself into the fabric of my routine.

When he first started coming back, he lingered just long enough to browse the shelves and engage in brief but engaging conversations about poetry. There was always a trace of anticipation in his eyes, as though he was searching for something more between the lines of our dialogue. I told myself it was just his curiosity about poetry, but as the days went on, I couldn't ignore the growing familiarity and ease in our exchanges.

It wasn't long before Will's visits extended into longer stays. He'd come in during the quieter hours of the day, when the shop was less crowded, and he would drift over to the poetry section. Sometimes, he would casually run his fingers along the spines of the books, seemingly lost in thought, but I knew better. He was waiting—for me to finish with a customer, for the shop to empty out, for the moment when it would be just the two of us again.

His presence became a fixture in my daily life, a reassuring constant amidst the ebb and flow of the shop. I found myself reorganizing the poetry section with a meticulousness I hadn't known I possessed, hoping that if I did it just right, he might notice and comment on it the next time he came in. When he did arrive, I would look up from my work and catch him watching me with that same contemplative expression. It was as if he was taking in every detail, every change, and I was learning to read his silent cues.

Our conversations deepened with each visit. We discussed poets from the Romantic era, delved into modern verse, and occasionally ventured into the realms of prose. He had a knack for pulling out lines from obscure poems, lines that seemed to resonate with the current moment, reflecting our shared silences and the spaces between us. His insights were often profound, yet delivered with a casual ease that made them all the more impactful.

One afternoon, the shop was particularly quiet, the kind of stillness that stretches on for hours. I had been rearranging books at the front table, half-listening to the soft patter of rain against the windows. Will came in as if he were a part of the rhythm of the day, his arrival marked by the familiar chime of the doorbell. He gave me a quick nod and a smile before heading straight to the poetry section, as though it were a sacred space he knew well.

I continued my work, trying to ignore the flutter of anticipation in my chest. I glanced at him periodically, noting how he seemed to lose himself in a particular volume, flipping through pages with a kind of reverence. His movements were deliberate, almost meditative, and I couldn't help but admire the way he immersed himself in the world of words.

Eventually, as the last customer left and the shop fell silent once more, I approached him. He looked up, his expression shifting from absorbed concentration to one of soft amusement.

"Waiting for me again?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light but unable to hide the pleasure in my voice.

He laughed, a sound that seemed to brighten the dim shop. "I've learned that good things are worth waiting for."

His words had an edge of something unspoken, and I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I tried to focus on the books, on the moment, but his gaze was steady, pulling me back to the reality of his presence.

He stayed longer that day, our conversation drifting from poetry to more personal topics. He spoke about his childhood, his experiences with literature, and his travels. I shared stories of my own—of late-night readings, of the customers who'd become regulars, of the dreams I harbored for the shop. The more we talked, the more I found myself opening up, revealing pieces of myself I hadn't planned to.

His laughter came more easily now, and the sound was a balm for my often solitary existence. He had a way of making the mundane seem interesting, of finding the beauty in everyday things. His presence was like a gentle nudge, reminding me that there was more to life than just the routine of running a bookshop.

As the days turned into weeks, Will's visits became a regular part of my schedule. He would come in, sometimes with a book he wanted to discuss, other times just to chat. We would talk about the nuances of poetry, the impact of certain lines, and the emotional weight carried by words. I would find myself looking forward to these moments with a kind of eagerness that surprised me.

Sometimes, when other customers were in the shop, he would wait quietly, observing from a distance. I noticed how he would pick up a book and leaf through it casually, as if the act of waiting was part of the experience. It wasn't just the conversations or the shared appreciation for poetry that made his presence so significant; it was the way he seemed to fit into the rhythm of my days, the way he made the shop feel like a more vibrant place.

Our exchanges became more frequent, more intimate. I found myself thinking about him even when he wasn't around—wondering what he was reading, what he was thinking, when I would see him next. I started to notice little details—the way he brushed his hair off his forehead, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the subtle shifts in his voice when he was passionate about something.

One day, as he was preparing to leave, he lingered at the door, turning back to me with a thoughtful expression. "You know, Jude," he said, "there's something about this place... it feels like a refuge. Like a place where you can lose yourself in stories and find something you didn't know you were looking for."

His words struck a chord, and I realized that he was right. The shop had always been a refuge for me, a sanctuary from the world outside. But now, with him in it, it felt different—richer, more alive. It was as if his presence had brought a new layer of meaning to the place, making it more than just a store but a space where connections were made, where understanding flowed between the lines of poetry and conversation.

As he left, the doorbell chimed once more, and I watched him go, feeling the familiar tug of anticipation already building for his next visit. It wasn't just about the poetry anymore. It was about him, about the way he had managed to weave himself into the fabric of my days, and how, in his presence, I had started to rediscover a part of myself I had forgotten.

I didn't know where this was all heading, but I knew that his presence had become an integral part of my world. And for the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of excitement, of possibility, that I hadn't known I was missing.