We found the old bookstore by accident a small corner nestled between two taller buildings, its wooden sign worn by time and seasons. You were the one who noticed it first, eyes lighting up like you had just remembered a dream you'd once had.
Inside, it smelled like stories. Not just ink and paper, but the kind of stories that had lived and been loved. There were books stacked in uneven piles, quotes scribbled on walls, and a sleepy cat curled up on a ladder step.
We didn't say much. We didn't need to. You disappeared into the art section while I wandered through poetry. Every now and then, we'd glance up and find each other through the shelves, like love letters passed between pages.
When we left, you held a sketchbook with a blue ribbon around it. I had a poetry collection that spoke too much like my heart. On the walk home, it rained light and warm and we didn't run. We let it kiss our skin, just like we let the moment soak into memory.
Later that night, you showed me the first page of your new sketchbook. You had drawn the bookstore, the raindrops, and me standing just outside the door, waiting for you.
I pressed a poem inside the cover, next to your drawing:
"If hearts were pages, you'd be the one I'd write in every time."