“The Girl at the Bookstore”

It started on a Thursday.

Elliot wasn’t even supposed to be at the bookstore. He preferred ordering his books online—no awkward small talk, no judgmental glances if he picked up a cheesy romance novel. But on that rainy afternoon, fate—or perhaps boredom—led him into the little shop on Fifth Street.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped in, shaking off droplets from his coat. The place smelled like old paper and cinnamon tea. It felt like stepping into someone’s memory.

He wandered to the back aisle, eyes scanning titles without purpose, until he saw her.

A girl in a mustard-yellow sweater sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by books stacked like a protective wall. She was deeply engrossed in a paperback, her lips silently forming the words. Her dark hair fell like a curtain around her face, and Elliot was struck by how peaceful she looked, as if the world outside didn’t exist.

He should’ve looked away.

But she glanced up, and caught him staring.

Most people would’ve given a polite smile or awkwardly looked away. She didn’t. She studied him for a second—really looked—and then said, “Don’t judge me. I like rereading endings.”

He blinked. “Even if you already know what happens?”

“Especially then,” she said, smiling. “It’s comforting.”

He smiled back.

Her name was Mia.

They ended up talking for forty minutes on that cold bookstore floor—about books, life, the way people pretend not to be lonely. Before he left, she handed him a small piece of paper with her favorite quote written in perfect, slanted handwriting:

**"Some stories are meant to be reread—because sometimes, we understand the ending better the second time."**

No phone number. No name.

He came back the next Thursday.

She was there.

Every Thursday after that, like clockwork, they met—sometimes talking, sometimes reading in silence, sometimes pretending not to care that time always moved too fast when they were together.

Elliot began to wait for Thursdays the way children wait for summer. He bought new books just to impress her. He started reading poetry—even though it made him feel exposed—because she loved how it “said so much with so little.”

But then, she stopped coming.

Three Thursdays passed. Then five.

He asked the cashier if she knew the girl in the yellow sweater. The woman smiled softly. “She doesn’t come in often anymore. She’s been… going through something.”

That night, Elliot walked home with a book he didn’t remember buying and a heart heavier than usual.

He reread the quote she gave him a hundred times.

Then, one Thursday, she was back.

She looked thinner. Tired. But her smile was still the same when she saw him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to be.”

They sat by the window this time, watching the rain.

“My mom passed away,” Mia said. “She used to come here with me. We always came on Thursdays.”

Elliot reached across the table and gently took her hand.

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

Mia blinked fast, like she wasn’t used to people staying.

“I’m not a happy ending,” she murmured.

Elliot smiled.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but you’re the part I want to reread anyway.”