Wednesday arrived.
The day was gloomy, with that signature London drizzle. I had just left the pitch meeting with the investor who seemed more interested in bragging about his yacht than understanding the potential of my AI-led emotional behavior modeling software. Annoyed but composed, I walked into a quiet bookstore near Bloomberg to catch a breath.
Books always grounded me.
I wasn't looking for anyone. I wasn't even looking for a title. I just wandered down the aisles, brushing fingers against the worn spines, letting the air still be restless. Then came a voice.
"That one will rip you apart."
I turned.
There she stood—rain-kissed hair curled slightly at the ends, a red scarf hanging loosely around her neck, and eyes that looked like they'd lived a hundred lives. She gestured to the book my hand had paused on—Never Let Me Go.
"You've read it?" I asked.
"I've felt it," she replied.
Something stirred in me. That sentence—so effortlessly raw, so precise. I blinked. "That's… actually the best way to put it."
She gave a half-smile, like she was used to people not understanding her but liked it when they did. "I'm Rhea."
I introduced myself. She didn't seem overly impressed or indifferent. Just… present. Authentically present. That was rare in my world now, filled with screens, deadlines, and curated conversations.
We ended up sitting near the shop's café corner with two cups of hot cocoa—she insisted coffee was overrated—and talked. About Kazuo Ishiguro. About our childhood books. About the odd smell of libraries. About how people like us still buy paperbacks even in the era of endless swipes.
I told her I ran a tech startup. She laughed and said, "Of course you do. You look like you know ten programming languages but still forget your umbrella."
I admitted she was right.
She told me she worked with kids on weekends—storytelling sessions in East London. I was caught off guard. Not because she did something different from me. But because she didn't say it to impress. She said it like it was just… part of her rhythm.
By the time we realized the store was closing, the rain had stopped, but neither of us wanted to leave.
"So," she said as we stepped out, "do you want to read something together sometime?"
I chuckled. "I'd love to."
And just like that, in the quiet rustle of pages and the subtle music of shared stillness, something began. Not loud. Not flashy. But real.
Rhea wasn't a storm. She was the calm that followed.
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