Something we build
739 Words
Chapter Eight: Something We Build
The days after the gallery night were filled with laughter, sunlight, and the slow weaving of lives.
Adrian didn’t just return—he stayed. He moved into the small flat above the bookstore, where the creaky floors became the rhythm of their mornings and the smell of coffee wafted down through the vents like a gentle hello.
Lila was no longer alone in unlocking the door each morning or turning the sign at closing time. They painted the reading corner together. Adrian built new shelves from repurposed wood, and Lila began offering weekend poetry classes to shy teenagers who barely spoke but wrote like storm clouds.
They were partners in every sense of the word.
And for a while, it was perfect.
Until the email came.
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Adrian found it on a Tuesday morning, just before breakfast. He sat at the kitchen table, blinking at the screen. The sender: Clara—his old contact in Berlin.
The subject line: “Paris Exhibition Invite – Featured Artist Spot”
The email explained that the gallery had submitted his painting—the one of Lila and the bookstore—to a curator in Paris. They were curating an international exhibit on “modern romanticism,” and wanted him to headline a month-long installation.
All expenses covered. Full creative freedom. One condition: he’d need to stay in Paris for six weeks.
Lila entered the kitchen, tying her hair into a bun. “Something wrong?”
Adrian hesitated. “Not wrong. Just… unexpected.”
He slid the laptop around. She read the message, then looked up, quiet.
“That’s… big.”
“I didn’t know they’d send it,” he said quickly. “And I haven’t decided anything.”
She nodded slowly, pressing her fingers to her lips.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking I want you to have everything,” she said. “But I’m also scared.”
Adrian stood and crossed to her. “You’re not losing me, Lila. That’s not on the table.”
She met his eyes. “I know. But it’s hard, pretending it won’t change things. That this”—she gestured around the small kitchen with its chipped mugs and plant-covered windowsills—“can stay frozen while the world keeps offering you more.”
He reached for her hand. “This place is more. You are more.”
But she pulled gently away, thoughtful. “Adrian, what if we think bigger? What if you go… and I come too?”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… I’ve been playing it safe. Running the store, staying in the same city. But I could host poetry pop-ups in Paris. Work remotely. Even just be there for you, with you. We talk so much about building something here—but maybe our story doesn’t have to be stuck in one place.”
Adrian’s voice was soft. “Would you really do that?”
She smiled. “Would you really leave without me?”
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They spent the next few days talking, dreaming, planning.
It wasn’t just about Paris—it was about realizing that their foundation was solid enough to travel, to stretch, to change. The bookstore would stay in trusted hands for a few weeks—Lila’s friend June agreed to manage the shop. Customers were excited, promising to write letters while they were away.
Adrian booked the train. Lila found a small studio apartment near Montmartre with a slanted ceiling and enough space for a desk and an easel.
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On the night before they left, Lila hosted one last event at The Ink Room. It was simple—just poetry and candles and a final note of gratitude to the community that had held her through grief, healing, and love.
As the night ended, she read a short poem of her own:
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“We are not a bookstore
Or a painting
Or a name carved in wood.
We are a beginning,
Carried in two hands
Across pages,
Across countries,
Across stars.”
---
The room went quiet. Then came applause.
Adrian kissed her forehead in front of everyone.
“Let’s go chase a few more stars,” he whispered.
And so, with hearts full and luggage light, they boarded t
he train the next morning—side by side, no longer saying goodbye, but hello to a new chapter.
- Writer
