The Echo of your name

I met her on a Thursday, the kind of day that smelled like fresh rain and second chances.

I was late, as usual, fumbling through the doors of the bookstore where my best friend worked. I wasn’t there to buy books—I was hiding from my own life, which at that moment included a recent breakup and a job I hated.

She was sitting in the poetry aisle, cross-legged on the floor, headphones in, mouthing the words of whatever she was reading like it mattered more than breathing. I noticed the soft curve of her mouth first, then the way she tilted her head when a line struck her. I didn’t know her name, but something in my chest shifted, like a compass suddenly pointing north.

“Hey,” I said, startling her.

She looked up, pulled out one earbud, and smiled. “Hey.”

“I—uh—I think you’re in my spot,” I joked, even though I’d never sat in that aisle before.

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Then by all means, claim your territory.”

I sat down beside her, and neither of us moved for the next three hours. We read Neruda and Plath, argued about Rupi Kaur, and laughed about the kind of people who pretended not to like love poems. Her name was Elise, and she tasted like rainy days, honey, and words that stayed with you long after they were spoken.

Over the next few months, we built a rhythm—morning coffee runs, late-night calls, writing letters we’d never send, just to feel the weight of our words. She’d leave poems in my coat pockets. I’d leave playlists on her phone, titled things like “In case you forget how wonderful you are.”

We never said the word love. We didn’t have to. It lived in the way she’d fall asleep on my shoulder during long train rides or how my chest would ache when she laughed too hard.

One night in November, as frost gathered on windowpanes, we lay on my roof watching the stars.

“I’m leaving in December,” she said softly.

I turned to her, the air suddenly thinner. “Where?”

“Paris. Art residency. Three months.”

My heart didn’t break—no, that would’ve been too easy. It splintered slowly, like ice cracking beneath your feet.

“Do you want me to ask you to stay?” I whispered.

She looked at me, eyes full of galaxies. “No. I want you to ask me to come back.”

I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “Then promise me you will.”

She kissed me like she was memorizing the shape of goodbye. “Only if you promise to be here when I do.”

Three months turned into six. Then nine. She sent postcards from old cafés and sketchbooks filled with crooked hearts. I answered every one with letters I never knew I could write—honest, messy, full of longing.

But time has a way of stretching itself when you're apart. The calls grew shorter. The silence lasts longer. Eventually, her last message came in the form of a letter—no return address, just a single line:

"You were my favorite poem."

I didn’t cry. I just kept living, one day at a time, replaying every memory like a favorite movie I refused to delete.

Years have passed. I changed jobs, cut my hair, stopped checking my mailbox for things that didn’t come. Love happened again—but never in the same way. No one ever made my heart write poetry in its sleep like she did.

One day, I found myself in the same bookstore, older, tired, wondering if I’d imagined her. The poetry aisle hadn’t changed. Neither had the way I looked for her face in strangers.

And then—there she was.

Not in person. In print.

A thin book on the shelf: The Echo of Your Name by Elise Moreau.

My hands shook as I opened it. The first page held a dedication: For the one who asked me to come back.

Tears blurred the words, but I smiled. She had come back—in the only way she could. Through pages and ink and memories that refused to fade.

I never reached out. Not because I didn’t want to. But because some love stories aren’t meant to restart—they’re meant to be remembered, cherished, and carried like a favorite poem tucked into a coat pocket.

And even now, when it rains, I swear I can still hear her name echoing softly in the space between heartbeats.