It started with a rain detour and ended in a poetry section.
They hadn't planned to visit a bookstore that day. But the clouds turned from romantic gray to apocalyptic charcoal in under ten minutes, and suddenly, the tiny green shop tucked between a café and a florist looked like salvation.
Ren pushed the door open, a bell jingled, and the smell hit them like a warm scarf: ink, old paper, and something faintly herbal—probably despair.
Noa blinked. "Wow. This place is like a book's afterlife."
Books were everywhere. Stacked on shelves, tables, chairs. Some were even crammed sideways into the spaces between vertical ones, like rebels refusing to conform to the spine-facing-out rule.
Ren looked delighted. "This is heaven."
"It's also a fire hazard."
"Even better."
They stepped inside. The bell jingled behind them again, closing the door on the downpour.
A soft classical tune played from somewhere in the ceiling. A black cat slept on a copy of *Les Misérables*. A woman with half-moon glasses looked up from the register, nodded once, then disappeared behind a tower of hardcovers like a librarian-ghost.
The vibe was both magical and threatening.
Perfect.
—
Ren wandered off to the travel section. Noa headed to poetry, because of course she did.
She ran her fingers along the worn spines, catching glimpses of titles in French, English, and languages she couldn't even identify. A few covers were water-stained. One smelled suspiciously like mildew and cinnamon.
She pulled out a book at random.
Behind her, a voice said, "That one's terrible."
Noa turned. Ren stood with a smug grin and a Lonely Planet guide to Iceland in his hand.
"You don't read poetry," she said.
"I don't. But I read online reviews of books I don't understand. It's a form of passive cultural superiority."
She rolled her eyes. "Help me pick something not terrible then."
He reached for a book on the top shelf. It was just out of reach.
Naturally.
Without asking, he stepped closer—too close—and stretched up to grab it.
Their arms brushed.
Her shoulder grazed his chest.
His elbow bumped her head.
"Sorry—sorry—almost got it—"
And then the shelf gave out.
Not the whole shelf. Just a single, traitorous wooden slat that had clearly been holding on by a nail and a prayer.
Books tumbled.
A domino of spines and pages.
One particularly thick volume landed squarely on Ren's foot.
He swore. Quietly. In three languages.
Noa froze, half-covered in poetry.
Then she burst out laughing.
A kind of helpless, bent-over, no-air laugh.
"Okay, I admit it," she gasped. "That was a perfect metaphor for us."
Ren groaned. "Painful, clumsy, and caused by old emotional weight?"
"Exactly."
They knelt down together, picking up the fallen books. One by one. Dust rose in tiny clouds. The smell of aged paper surrounded them.
Somehow, the moment turned quiet again.
A book of French love poems slipped open in Noa's hands.
Ren glanced over.
One page caught his eye.
He read it aloud—badly accented, stilted:
*"Je t'aime sans savoir comment, ni quand, ni d'où…"*
Noa looked up.
"You're quoting Neruda. In French. That's brave."
He smiled sheepishly. "It just looked dramatic. And kinda sad."
She nodded. "It is."
A pause.
A pause with weight.
Then Noa said, almost too lightly, "You ever think we're just... delaying something?"
Ren looked at her.
"You mean like addressing the romantic tension that's been following us since Tokyo?"
Her heart thudded.
"Yeah. That."
He sat back on his heels. Thought for a moment.
Then said, "I think we've both been carrying a shelf full of feelings we don't know how to organize."
Noa stared at him.
"That was... shockingly poetic."
He shrugged. "It's the bookstore air. Makes me smarter."
She smiled.
Then stood, brushing off her jeans.
"Okay. Let's get out of here before we destroy more literature."
Ren picked up two books—one French poetry, one Iceland guide—and followed her to the counter.
—
Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets glistened. The air smelled like rain and something a little sweeter.
They walked in silence for a bit.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just quiet.
Then Noa asked, "So what do we do about the shelf?"
Ren blinked. "The feelings shelf?"
"Yeah."
"Do we organize it? Label it? Burn it?"
She laughed. "Maybe we just stop pretending it's not there."
He looked at her.
"You want to do that now?"
She didn't look back.
Just said, "Not yet. But maybe soon."
Ren nodded.
And for now, that was enough.
—
Back in the apartment that night, Noa unpacked her poetry book and found a slip of paper tucked inside.
In Ren's handwriting:
*"Je t'aime sans savoir comment, ni quand, ni d'où…"*
And underneath:
*"...but definitely somewhere between croissant number two and the bookstore accident."*
She smiled.
Closed the book.
And let herself feel it.