Someone was at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I said, not expecting anything unusual.
But when I opened it, he stood there.
A boy in a checkered shirt and grey pants, with the smoothest skin I’d ever seen and eyes shaped like a cat’s—sharp, gentle, and completely disarming.
He asked if a certain person lived in my house.
I was so smitten I couldn’t speak.
I simply nodded.
He smiled—soft, polite, devastating.
“Please give this to her,” he said, handing me a small package.
I took it, and before I could blink, he was already riding off on his white Vespa.
It took me minutes to come back to my senses.
When I finally checked the package, I realised the truth—whoever he was looking for definitely did not live in my house.
And suddenly, I absolutely had to find him again… even if it was just to return the package.
There was no address, only a phone number.
I called it, hoping to hear that sweet voice again.
Instead, an old man answered.
I explained that the package was wrongly delivered and needed to be returned.
He told me it belonged to a small bookstore I’d never heard of.
The next day, I went there.
Only the old man was present.
I stalled, lurked, pretended to browse, but there was no sign of the boy.
Disheartened, I returned home.
The next day, I tried again.
A lady was there this time, asking what kind of books I wanted. How could I tell her the truth—that I was searching for a boy I’d met for less than two minutes?
Panicking, I dropped a few books from a corner shelf.
I knelt to pick them up—
And then I heard it.
“Let me help you.”
My heart stopped.
There he was, somehow even more stunning in a plain white T-shirt.
His presence made the air around me disappear.
I managed to ask if he worked there.
He smiled.
“My father owns the store. I help out after school.”
I bought a random book and fled before I melted on the spot.
After that, I kept going back to the bookstore—finding ridiculous excuses to buy more books just to see him.
He kept noticing, of course.
One day he asked, teasing,
“Why do you buy so many horror stories?”
I laughed.
“Are you afraid of horror stories?”
He admitted he wasn’t a fan.
So I challenged him to read one story with me.
We set a date at the public library.
I showed up hours early—I couldn’t help it. Waiting at home was impossible.
But the moment he walked in with that cute smile, every second felt worth it.
We chose a book and sat together.
He was surprisingly serious, actually reading, turning pages like a diligent student.
A few chapters in, he sensed my gaze.
He stopped, looked up, and caught me staring.
He closed the book slowly.
“That’s enough,” he said.
“You really think I came here to read a horror story?”
Before I could respond, he gently took my hand.
“I want to know your story.”
My entire world just… paused.
We laughed and talked until the librarian finally came and kicked us out like misbehaving teenagers.
After that, I kept visiting the bookstore.
He kept pretending not to wait for me.
We kept meeting at the library, in our corner, pretending to read but mostly reading each other.
Page by page, moment by moment, something quiet, warm, and beautiful kept growing between us.
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