Amsterdam was still damp from last night’s rain.
There were no large puddles left on the streets—only sidewalks gleaming like glass.
Bicycles passed by at an easy pace.
And among all the ordinary things, there was something unplanned: Blair had started to look forward to a certain set of footsteps every Sunday.
Damn it.
She hated that fact.
Inside the bookstore, nothing had changed.
The shelves were still filled with old books.
The wooden floor still creaked on the third step from the door.
The antique wall clock still ticked too loudly every fifteen minutes.
Only one thing was different: the way Blair stood whenever the doorbell rang.
She always looked up.
But pretended she wasn’t waiting.
Kattie once said that the things we don’t plan for are usually the most honest ones.
Blair hadn’t really listened back then.
Now, that sentence felt uncomfortably close.
And sure enough, Pablo came earlier that day.
Not in the afternoon, like usual.
Morning.
It wasn’t even eleven yet when the bell rang.
Blair recognized his steps without looking, yet she stayed behind the counter, still pretending to be busy.
Pablo glanced around the shop briefly, then walked straight to the same shelf as last week.
This time, his hand reached for a book more quickly.
He no longer looked lost.
He looked… comfortable.
And that felt strange.
Comfort usually doesn’t arrive this fast, does it?
Pablo approached the counter.
“You look busy,” he said.
Blair shrugged.
“It’s a bookstore.
We pretend to be busy.”
Pablo let out a low laugh.
Not loud.
But real.
It caught Blair off guard.
He didn’t seem like someone who laughed often.
“Is this book good?” he asked, lifting one.
Blair glanced at it.
“Yeah, if you like stories about people who seem fine on the outside but are quietly falling apart.”
Pablo went still.
“Sounds like everyone’s life,” he replied.
Blair smiled slightly, without realizing it.
They didn’t talk for long.
They didn’t sit together.
They didn’t share life stories.
The connection was still thin—fragile, even.
But there was a pull that was hard to ignore.
Pablo lingered near the counter afterward, without really doing anything.
“Why do you work here?” he asked suddenly.
Blair didn’t answer right away.
“Because I like this place,” she said eventually.
That was partly true.
Pablo nodded.
“You don’t look like someone who’d work at a café.”
“Why not?”
“You seem… too calm for crowded places.”
Blair looked at him.
“You’re a strange observer.”
Pablo shrugged.
“I used to come to places like this a lot,” he said.
“Just not bookstores.”
“Then where?”
“Grocery stores,” he answered simply.
Blair didn’t ask more.
Not now.
Some things felt like doors that weren’t meant to be opened yet.
That afternoon, near the end of her shift, Brunne told Blair to take a fifteen-minute break.
She sat on a small bench by the window, holding a cup of hot chocolate Brunne had made for her.
And Pablo… didn’t leave.
He sat on the floor, leaning against the nearest shelf.
Not too close.
Not too far.
“Isn’t this weird?” Blair asked.
“Weird how?”
“You’re sitting on the floor of a bookstore.”
Pablo glanced around.
“I didn’t see an empty chair.”
“Liar.” A small smile appeared on her lips.
Irrelevant.
Not worth arguing about.
That night, Blair got home later than usual.
Kattie immediately looked at her from the sofa.
“You came home with a mysterious aura,” she said.
Blair sighed.
“You’re loud.”
“And you look more alive,” Kattie replied.
Blair didn’t deny it.
Eventually, she told Kattie about Pablo—not everything, but enough.
Kattie listened seriously.
“Bookstore guy?” she asked, nodding.
“Bookshelf guy,” Blair corrected.
“Cute.”
“He’s normal.”
“Noted.”
Blair fell quiet—and realized… maybe she wasn’t alone in this.
***
On the other side of the city, Pablo stood on the balcony of his small apartment.
The city lights shimmered like scattered gold below.
The night air was cold.
He pulled out his phone and opened a message from his mother.
Have you eaten?
He typed:
Yes.
Then stopped.
He stared at the empty screen, then typed again:
I met someone…
But he deleted it.
Pablo slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.
Some things were still too delicate to be spoken aloud.