Her Compliment Was a Question

It started with a question about bookmarks.

But that wasn’t the question I left with.

in the hush of the bookshop,

I searched—

for bookmarks

hidden between shelves,

words, and whispers.

uncertain, I approached her—

soft voice, eyes alight,

like someone who belongs

to secrets more than shelves.

her gaze wandered,

settling slowly on my hair.

a color holding secrets

even I couldn't fully grasp.

“purple,” she murmured gently,

a compliment that felt like an invitation,

her words hanging between us,

a subtle tension shimmering in the air.

she led me quietly

through aisles of pens, diaries, cups—

small mysteries

waiting to be discovered.

at the bookmarks, she hesitated,

eyes lingering a breath too long,

filled with silent wonder,

as if my hair held stories

she ached to unravel.

she turned away,

but the silence remained—

pulsing, charged, unresolved.

I walked away,

leaving behind a silence

orchestrated by something greater.

and for that—

even if our paths never cross again—

the feeling stays,

like a half-read page

I’ll never forget,

and never fully understand.

like a frame from a film you don’t remember the title of—

but you remember how it made you feel.