Chapter 4 The Unspoken things

Some things were easier said than felt, and others were easier felt than ever said. And for Maya, that space in between-the quiet, unwritten things-was where she now lived.

The days after her encounter with Liam were strange. Not in a bad way. Not in a good way either. Just... unfamiliar. Her heart no longer followed the logic she had always clung to. Her journal pages were messy, erratic, sometimes empty. Her thoughts were full, yet silent. That scared her.

She didn't see Liam again right away. He didn't text. She didn't call. Maybe they both feared that the magic would vanish if they tried to define it. Or maybe they were both just young, confused, and stumbling through emotions that felt older than they were.

But on the fifth day, it happened.

She was walking past the bookstore near the corner of the street that smelled like old paper and cinnamon tea. Her boots echoed faintly on the pavement, and she kept looking down, unsure why she felt so self-aware that day. When she looked up, she saw him-Liam-standing there, in the doorway of the bookstore, like he had been waiting for someone and had no idea it was going to be her.

"Hey," he said. Just that. Like they hadn't left the conversation unfinished days ago.

Maya stopped. "Hi," she said back. Her voice caught a little in her throat, but she managed to sound casual.

"You like books?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I breathe books," she replied, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smile.

He held the door open. "Come in, then. Let's breathe together."

She laughed. Loud enough for a stranger nearby to glance their way. That laugh-it did something to Liam. Like a door inside him had creaked open, just a bit.

They wandered into the store like two people who belonged in parallel stories but had somehow found the same chapter. The bookstore was warm and cluttered in a comforting way. Piles of books were stacked unevenly on wooden tables. A cat napped near the classics section. Dust floated in sunbeams like memories with nowhere to go.

Liam walked ahead to the poetry section. "I never understood poetry," he said, flipping through a slim, faded volume of Pablo Neruda.

Maya reached for a book by Mary Oliver. "You don't have to understand it. You just feel it."

He looked at her then, for a beat too long. "That makes sense. You seem like someone who feels everything."

She blushed slightly. "Is that a good thing?"

"I think it's rare," he replied.

They spent almost two hours there. Not talking all the time, not reading all the time-just existing in the same space. Sometimes, that was more intimate than anything else.

At some point, Maya picked up a book and found a note tucked between the pages. It read:

"To the person who finds this:

Be brave. Someone out there wants to love you the way you don't even know you deserve yet."

She handed it to Liam silently. He read it and smiled gently. "Maybe that's a sign."

"Of what?" she asked, her voice soft.

He met her eyes. "That we found the right page."

They didn't kiss. Not then. It would've felt too much, too soon. But when he walked her home afterward, there was a quiet understanding between them. A warmth that didn't demand to be explained.

At her gate, she turned to him. "Thanks for the books. And the breathing."

He grinned. "Anytime you want to breathe again... I'm around."

Maya smiled, nodded, and slipped inside. She didn't look back. Not because she didn't want to-but because something inside her whispered: Let it grow. Don't rush this.

That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She couldn't remember the last time silence felt so full.

The next few days were a blur of almosts. Almost calling him. Almost texting. Almost saying something when she saw him from afar in the hallway at school.

But neither did.

Until that Friday evening.

There was a small event at the school hall-some kind of open mic night for students to read poems or sing or share their art. Maya hadn't planned to go, but her friend Clara dragged her along.

"Come on," Clara said. "You need a little more world and a little less overthinking."

Maya relented, secretly hoping Liam might be there.

He was.

Not just attending-reading.

Her breath caught when his name was called. He walked up slowly, almost awkwardly. A hush fell over the room. He unfolded a paper from his pocket.

"This isn't mine," he said, voice uncertain. "But it reminds me of someone."

He read a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke. One about love that grows slowly, patiently, like a tree. And when he finished, his eyes searched the crowd, and found hers.

It wasn't a declaration.

It was an invitation.

When it was all over, Maya didn't wait for him. She went home alone, confused by the swell of feelings inside her. This wasn't how love stories in movies worked. There were no grand gestures or dramatic kisses in the rain. Just quiet poems and stolen glances. And yet... it felt real.

It felt like something that could last.

Later that night, her phone buzzed.

It was a message from Liam.

"I meant it. All of it. I don't know what this is, Maya. But I want to find out-with you."

She stared at the screen, heart racing.

And for once, she didn't hesitate.

"Me too."

That was all.

But it was enough.

Because some chapters begin with a whisper, not a bang. And some hearts don't need fireworks to know when they're home.