After Us

Seven years ago—Meeting Him

Layla was lost in the maze of passageways at the bookshop, her fingers tracing the shabby spines of books, searching for an interesting title. The serenity of the room was a pleasant surprise for a Friday afternoon, allowing her thoughts to settle.

Reaching for a copy of The Old Man and the Sea, her fingers brushed on someone’s hands.

“Whoa, my bad!” She quickly apologised, retrieving her steps.

“It’s fine. Didn’t mean to interrupt you either. The voice from the other end replied.

Layla turned the voice, her brow lifting in shock. The man standing there was not what she expected.

In his mid-twenties, with tousled dark hair and dressed in a simple leather jacket, he gave off a certain careless charm. His smile was almost playful as his hand rested lightly on the same book she’d reached for.

“You know,” he began, tapping the cover, “this one’s classic for a reason. Are you into Hemingway, or were you just curious?”

Layla c****d an eyebrow, arms crossed in a mild shield. “And if I said both?”

He let out a quiet laugh, eyes blinking. “Then I’d say you’ve got good taste. But…” He pulled the book off the shelf slowly. “It’s heavier than it seems. Are you prepared to dive into all that today?”

“I think I’ll manage,” she shot back smoothly, “but I’m not sure Hemingway is my style.”

“Oh! You look like someone who likes to dive into things. Why avoid the best?“

“Maybe I like the unknown. The surprises”

“So you're saying Hemingway is predictable?”

“I'll let you convince me,” Lay smiled slowly. “And what do you know about Hemingway?

With a bloated gasp, he put a hand over his heart. “Hemingway and I go way back, actually. Didn’t you know? We’re practically best buds.”

Unable to hold up, Layla busted out laughing. “Of course. You must be the long-lost inspiration for Santiago himself.”

“Exactly,” he said, still smiling, “And since I’m feeling generous, I’ll even let you have it—on one condition, though.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” Layla smiled, a little shocked at his guts.

“You’ve got to promise to actually read it, no skipping.”

“Bold of you to think I don’t finish what I start,” Layla shot back.

“And what exactly do you get out of allowing me to have your favourite book?”

Evan’s smile broadened, but this time it was softer, more genuine. “The chance to be remembered.”

“Remembered?”

“Well, if you love the book, you’ll think of me every time you see it. And if you hate it…” He hesitated, his eyes holding hers in a playful way. “You’ll think of me even more.”

Layla giggled; she took the book from his hands, her fingers grazing on his. There was calmness at the moment, a brief pause that felt heavier than it should have.

“Deal. But since we’re making promises, I think I need yours too: what’s your name, bookshop guy?”

“Evan,” he said, stretching out a hand. “And you are?”

“Layla.” She shook his hand, the connection lingering slightly longer than either had expected. It was a simple gesture, but there was something about the way his hand felt—warm, steady—that made her pulse race for reasons she didn’t want to think about.

“Nice to meet you, Layla,”

“So, if Hemingway’s your go-to, what’s in this section of all things?”

Evan shrugged and motioned to the surrounding books, “I like variety. Besides, the best stories come from the most unpredictable places.”

“Oh?” Layla raised an eyebrow. “Is that Hemingway too?”

“That one’s all me.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle. Evan’s sarcasm made her enjoy his presence more than expected. There was something about their back-and-forth chats that she couldn't quite place.

She sighted the clock on the far wall and realised she had spent more time than she gave her mom an excuse for.

“Well, thanks for the chat and book recommendation,” she said, lifting it to signal the end of their conversation. “But I should probably—”

“Let me guess,” Evan cut in. “Head home, start reading, and forget this whole chat?”

“Not quite,” she shot back. “ But close.”

Evan gave an exaggerated, understanding nod. “Fair enough. But here’s the deal: if you finish the book and feel like chatting about it, I’m usually around on Fridays. Same time, same place.”

That raised her eyebrows. “Weird? Don’t you think?”

He shrugged playfully. “I like my routines well planned and structured. You never know what surprising encounters the world has for you.”

Evan glanced at her before pulling out a sticky note from his jacket pocket, making a note of something Layla didn't care about.

Layla smiled a little. “Noted. I’ll see what happens, Evan.”

“Take care, Layla,” he called after her as she turned to walk to the door.

Layla walked outside, book in hand, feeling lighter than she had when she came in. The crispy air felt good, but her fingers flipped over the edge of the book—until something caught her sight.

A sticky note peeked from the pages, the ink barely stained, handwriting too sloppy to ignore. She felt her pulse kick up as she slid it out.”

Her heart skipped a bit. She slipped it out carefully, in a slightly messy handwriting. It read:

“I meant it about Fridays. Don’t keep Hemingway waiting.”

She couldn’t help the little smile that escaped her lips, every word drawing her in as if he figured out exactly what would keep her returning.”

As she tucked the note and slipped it back into the book, her senses prickled. She looked up instinctively, and her gaze landed at the bookstore window. There he was—Evan.

He stood at the side of the window, watching her, one hand resting casually in his pant pocket. There was an undeniable smirk on his face, like he’d been wishing her to find the note just then.

Their eyes met briefly, and a weird rush of emotion danced in her chest—she blinked, but in the second it took, he was gone.