A Gentel kind of love
1445 Words
Two weeks passed, soft as a page turn.
Lila and Adrian slipped into a rhythm. She reopened the bookstore full-time, and Adrian started working from the back corner table, claiming the shop’s quiet as his new “creative space.” He brought tea in the mornings. She brought pastries at noon. And though no one had said the word love yet, it filled the space between them like sunlight—warm, steady, always present.
They didn’t rush. That was the magic of it.
On Tuesdays, they walked home together, Lila’s fingers grazing his as they talked about everything and nothing. Adrian shared sketches of his childhood home; Lila shared poems she once buried in the back of drawers. Neither tried to impress the other—they just were.
And it was enough.
Until the day the letter came.
Adrian found it tucked in the mailbox outside the bookstore. A stiff white envelope, no return address. But the handwriting… it stopped him cold.
Inside was a letter from Marina—the woman who had broken his heart almost a year ago.
Lila noticed his silence the moment he stepped in. “What’s wrong?”
He handed her the letter, too stunned to speak.
---
Adrian,
I heard through a mutual friend that you’re doing well. I’m happy for you. I know we ended things badly, and I never got the chance to explain. If there’s any part of you that wants closure—or even just to talk—I’ll be in town for a few days. I’d like to see you.
— Marina
---
Lila read the letter, then folded it calmly and handed it back.
“You don’t have to see her,” she said.
“I know.”
“But do you want to?”
Adrian sat down beside her, rubbing his temple. “Honestly? I don’t know. Part of me does. For answers, maybe. For peace.”
Lila nodded, but her eyes clouded for the first time since she’d returned.
“You’re allowed to seek closure,” she said softly. “Just promise me something?”
He looked at her.
“Don’t let the past dim what we’re building.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “You’re the only thing that makes sense to me right now.”
And he meant it.
But later that night, after Lila had gone home and the store had gone quiet, Adrian sat at his desk with Marina’s letter in his hand and a hundred questions in his heart.
---
Two days later, he met Marina at a park bench near the river.
She looked the same—polished, confident, with eyes that always saw too much. But something had changed. There was sadness behind her smile.
“I didn’t come to mess anything up,” she said. “I just needed to say I’m sorry. For how I left. For what I said.”
Adrian listened. He let her speak. And when she was done, he said only this:
“I thought you broke me. But I was just unfinished.”
Marina looked away. “Is there someone else now?”
He smiled, thinking of Lila curled up behind the bookstore counter, pencil in hand, eyes full of stars.
“Yes,” he said. “And she’s everything I didn’t know I needed.”
---
That evening, Adrian returned to the bookstore and found Lila reorganizing the poetry shelf. She looked up as he entered, her expression unreadable.
“She apologized,” he said simply. “But I realized I don’t need what she came to offer. I’ve already healed.”
Lila placed the last book on the shelf, then walked over to him. “You’re sure?”
Adrian nodded. “I didn’t choose pain. I’m choosing peace. I’m choosing you.”
And in the quiet of the shop, beneath soft yellow lights, she kissed him for the first time.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And that made it beautiful.
---
Chapter Four: The Words We Speak
The kiss lingered between them, a promise whispered against the hush of the bookstore. When they finally pulled away, Lila’s cheeks were flushed, and Adrian’s heart was pounding like a drum.
They didn’t say anything for a moment. They didn’t have to.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the street slick and shining under the lamplight. The soft rustle of book pages and the distant tick of the clock were the only sounds.
Lila smiled shyly, smoothing a hand through her hair. “I should probably lock up.”
Adrian laughed, breathless. “Yeah. I’ll help.”
They closed the shop together, the way they had a dozen times before, but this time every movement felt changed, charged. As they stacked leftover receipts and straightened shelves, they kept sneaking glances at each other, like teenagers falling in love for the first time.
When the door finally clicked shut, Adrian took her hand.
“Do you want me to walk you home?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I’d like that.”
They stepped out into the night, their shoes splashing through shallow puddles, side by side in a quiet companionship. Lila’s apartment was only a ten-minute walk away, past flower stalls and shuttered cafés. Adrian kept expecting the spell to break, for things to feel awkward or forced — but they didn’t.
At her door, Lila turned to him, searching his face. “I know this is… delicate. I don’t want you to feel rushed.”
“I don’t,” Adrian said. “It feels right. Slow, but… right.”
She exhaled, relief softening her features. “Me too.”
They stood there a moment longer, wrapped in the warmth of understanding, then Lila stepped forward and kissed him once more, gentle and certain.
---
The next morning, the bookstore felt different, almost brighter. Adrian showed up early with fresh bagels, and Lila surprised him with a new poem scribbled on a sticky note and pressed into his palm:
---
“The heart is a quiet ship,
It learns to sail again,
Slow winds, steady tides,
Finding its way to shore.”
---
He kept the note folded in his wallet like a lucky charm.
As the week went on, their connection deepened. They began spending evenings together, reading poetry in the shop, drawing sketches, telling stories they had never told another soul. Lila shared more about her mother, about how she had felt abandoned by the world after losing her. Adrian talked about his childhood, how he used to be afraid of disappointing people so badly that he stopped trying to create.
One night, Lila touched his sketchbook gently. “You’re an artist, Adrian. You should never let that part of you go.”
He smiled. “Only if you promise to write again.”
She swallowed, a little afraid. “What if no one likes what I write?”
“Then write for me,” he said softly. “For us.”
It was enough.
---
Later that week, a new challenge arrived.
Lila’s aunt, who owned the bookstore, returned from a trip abroad with a surprise:
“I’ve decided to retire,” she announced, smiling warmly. “And I’d like to leave the shop to you, Lila.”
Lila froze. “Me?”
Her aunt nodded. “You love this place more than anyone. You’ve made it a home again.”
Lila’s heart leapt — but then panic set in. Owning the store meant responsibility. It meant risk. And what if she failed?
That night, she told Adrian everything, fear bubbling in her voice. “What if I can’t keep it running? What if people stop coming?”
Adrian took her hands and squeezed gently. “You’ve already made this place come alive again, Lila. If you love it, then you’ll find a way.”
“But what if I mess it up?”
He smiled, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “Then I’ll be here to help you fix it.”
She looked up, a tear slipping free, and laughed through it. “You really mean that?”
“I really do,” he said. “We can build something here. Together.”
---
As the night settled in, and the two of them stood in the little store that had brought them together, Lila began to believe him. The shop was more than a building with shelves and books — it was their story, unfolding one page at a time.
She decided, right then, to say yes.
Yes to the bookstore.
Yes to the future.
Yes to a gentle, steady love.
---
- Writer
