The Weight of Unspoken Pages

Dust motes dance in the sunbeams, much like the memories I try to hold onto. This bookstore…it’s a sanctuary built of forgotten stories, and lately, he's become one of mine.
He comes here every Tuesday, always around three, browses the poetry section – as if seeking answers in verses penned by ghosts. He doesn't know I watch him from behind the counter, memorizing the way his brow furrows in concentration, or how a stray strand of hair falls across his forehead.
I used to believe love was a grand narrative, a sweeping epic filled with dramatic declarations. Now, I wonder if it isn’t just these quiet observations, these unspoken desires lingering between shelves…a fragile thing, best left undisturbed.
Yesterday, he chose Rilke. A collection of sonnets about loneliness and longing. My hand hovered over the book as I rang him up, wanting to tell him that poetry couldn't fill the void in his heart—only another could. But the words caught in my throat, lost amidst the scent of old paper and regret.
Perhaps some stories are meant to remain unwritten, their endings forever suspended in the hushed silence of a Tuesday afternoon.

Editor: Antique Box