Chapter Text
I’m driving back to the bookstore now, your bouquet sitting on the passenger seat. Twenty-five dollars? I’d have paid a thousand if it meant staying in your world for just a minute longer. But no, this is better. The slow burn. The long game. The big efforts. The kind of effort those Tinder-swiping, craft-beer-drinking, fuckboys you wasted your youth on wouldn’t even begin to comprehend. I bet their idea of romance is venmoing you $10 for an Uber and expecting a blowjob in return. Pathetic. They’re the type to tip 10% and think they’re philanthropist. And porn? Of course, they’re slaves to it. Too dumb. Too lazy, to appreciate you. They don't get it. They don't get you.
Love stories aren’t built on fleeting touches and throwaway flowers, no. Real love takes strategy. Planning. Patience. And that’s why I’m making it easy for you. You need to come to me, on your terms. It has to feel organic. Fate-like. The kind of story you’d tell our grandchildren one day romanticizing the shit out of it. “We met by chance,” you’ll say. “It was meant to be.” And I’ll smile, because you won’t know how much work I put into it, how much time I dedicated to you to make it happen.
Lucky for both of us, I already own the perfect spot. My bookstore. Quaint, charming, reeking of old paper and nostalgia. The kind of place that'll make you fell like you're living in a Nora Ephron film. You’d love it. You’d melt into it. It’s perfect, and it’s waiting for you.
I park the car and carry your bouquet inside, placing it on the checkout counter like it’s a trophy. Little do they know it is, at least for me. I’ll recommend your shop to a customer or two, and when they go to your store and tell you, “The guy from that bookstore a few blocks away suggested this place,” you’ll smile. God, that fucking smile. and I’ll have made my way into your head. You’ll think of me. Maybe even wonder about me. Just enough to give me a chance.
I grab my laptop, pull up Canva, and immediately regret it. The templates. The endless, soul-sucking templates. A parade of forced whimsy and pretentiousness. “Handwritten font” The fuck.? All this overer-saturated colors making my head hurt already. It’s like the visual equivalent of a Hallmark card, nauseating. And yet, here I am, scrolling through this dumpster of mediocrity for you.
Why the fuck do I need to pay for a PNG of a book? A book! The irony. Whatever. Fuck it, I'll get the premium version. Fuck Canva, fuck capitalism, fuck everything. I’ll do it for you. Because you’re worth it.
“Poetry Night,” I type. “An intimate evening celebrating the power of words.” Kill me. I hate myself for pandering. For making my bookstore into a stage for your predictable, romanticized fantasies. But you’ll come. You're the type of girl who'll see "Oh, a poetry event at a cozy bookstore, why not?" You’re the type of girl who clings to words like lifeboats, who cries over Neruda and pretends Plath’s despair is profound rather than pathetic. You’re naive. Painfully naive. But for once, your early 2000s romcom delusions work in my favor.
I print the flyer and pin it to the bulletin board by the door, right where you’ll see it if you step inside. I’ll make more copies later, maybe even drop one off at your shop. Casual, of course. Just one local business supporting another. Nothing weird about that. Just me, a perfectly normal guy, inviting you into my world. This is how love stories are made. Not your cliched predictable movies.
The flyer feels warm in my hands, fresh from the printer. It’s simple. Understated. Just enough intrigue to draw you in without giving too much away. I stare at it, thinking of you holding it, reading it, maybe tucking it into your bag next to that little notebook you probably carry everywhere. You’d write about this, wouldn’t you? About how the universe works in mysterious ways, about how it led you to this event, to me.
I place the typical “Be right back” sign on the door of the bookstore and walk into your flower shop, flyer in hand. Subtle. Normal.
You’re behind the counter when I arrive, arranging lilies in a vase. Your hair’s pulled back, strands escaping in a way that’s so fucking artless it feels staged. Of course, it’s not. That’s why it works. That’s why you work.
I clear my throat, and you look up, surprised. That smile again. Jesus Christ. It’s a weapon. “Hey,” I say, holding up the flyer. “Just dropping this off. It's for little poetry night I bought the flowers for. "Thought you might want to drop by"
Your eyes scan the flyer, and for a second, I think I’ve overdone it. Maybe poetry wasn’t the move. Maybe you’re more of a gallery-opening, acoustic-music kind of girl. But then your lips curve, and you nod. “That’s really cool,” you say. “I’ll try to stop by.”
Try?. Try. The most noncommittal word in the English language. But I let it slide. I can’t push too hard, can’t let you see how much I need you to be there. “No pressure,” I say. “Just thought you might enjoy it.”
I hang around just long enough to feel your eyes on me as I leave. I don’t look back. I don’t need to.
The night of the event, the bookstore smells like old books and desperation. Chairs are arranged in a semi-circle, fairy lights strung up in a way that looks effortless but took me two fucking hours and several curses to achieve. A curated stack of poetry books waits on a side table, begging for your attention. The crowd trickles in, regulars, strangers, and a guy in a scarf who’s definitely going to mansplain Rumi before the night’s over.
But not you. Not yet.
I keep glancing at the door, at my watch, at the door again. The clock ticks past seven. Seven fifteen. Seven twenty. You’re late. And for a brief, panicked moment, I wonder if I miscalculated. If I pushed too hard, too fast. This is what happens when you rely on people. They let you down.
But then the bell above the door jingles, and there you are. You’re here. Breathless, flushed, wrapped in a cardigan that practically begs me to pull it off you. You scan the room, and when your eyes land on me, you smile like it was fate. Like you were always meant to be here.
“Sorry I’m late,” you say, slipping out of your knitted cardigan. “I had a thing at the shop, but I didn’t want to miss this.”
“Glad you made it,” I reply, calm, composed, while my heart is hammering in my chest.
You find a seat in the middle of the room, just close enough for me to watch you without being obvious. I take my place behind the mic, opening the night with a short, cringy introduction. The crowd laughs politely, but I don’t care. I’m not doing this for them.
As the first reader steps up, I steal glances at you. You lean forward slightly, fingers grazing the strap of your bag like you’re auditioning for an indie film. And I buy the performance, because I have to. I can almost hear the gears turning in your head as you soak it all in. The words, the atmosphere, the inevitability of us. I catch your eye and nod, just enough to acknowledge you without giving myself away. You smile, small and polite. I could fuck you right here, on this stack of poetry books, and it would be art.
I barely hear the poems being read. Some pretentious crap about red laddles and absent fathers. Nothing new. None of it matters. The real art tonight is you, sitting there, your legs crossed, your head tilted. You’re the poem. You’re the only thing worth reading.
When it’s over, I linger near the door, pretending to clean up. You approach, just as I knew you would.
“That was beautiful,” you say, your voice soft. “Thank you for inviting me. By the way I'm Cassandra, but you can call me Cass, or Cassie, whatever you prefer. Although maybe you already knew it because of the 10% off thing you offer last time where i signed up" you smile shyly and shake my hand and your touch is just how I expected it to be.
Cassandra. As if I didn’t already know. As if I didn’t moan your name last night. “We’ll be doing more of these. Maybe next time, you’ll share something.” I shake your hand back and smile at you. “I’m Joe,” I reply. “Just Joe.”
You laugh, a soft, nervous sound. “Well, Joe. Maybe I’ll come to the next one.”
Your laugh lingers in the air, light and airy, but I can hear the layers beneath it. The hesitation. The curiosity. The way your lips curl into that little smirk like you're holding something back. Maybe. Noncommittal, again. But this time, it’s not a brush-off. It’s a hook. You’re testing me, seeing if I’ll take the bait, and oh, Cassandra, Cass, Cassie. Whatever the fuck name you want to give me to fall asleep to at night, I’ll take it.
I watch through the window as you walk down the street, your cardigan slipping off one shoulder in that way that looks accidental but never is. Your fingers graze the strap of your bag, and I know, without question, that the flyer is inside. Tucked safely between your notebook and whatever novel you’re pretending to read this week. You’ll look at it again later tonight, won’t you? In the soft glow of your bedside lamp, you’ll think of this evening. Of me. Of the way I said your name like it was new to me, like I hadn’t whispered it to the rhythm of my heartbeat a hundred times already.
I lock up the store and head upstairs to my apartment. It’s quiet, too quiet, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to think. To plan. To analyze every word you said, every movement you made. The way your hand lingered just a second too long when we shook hands. The way you laughed, not because you were nervous but because you liked the way my name sounded in your mouth. And I can't wait to make you climax and you say it under your breathless voice.
Joe. Just Joe.
I sit down at my desk, the glow of my laptop illuminating the dark room. Your Instagram page is open in one tab, your flower shop’s website in another. I scroll through photos of you—smiling with customers, posing with bouquets, standing in front of that goddamn neon sign that reads “Bloom where you’re planted.” It’s all so… precious. Too perfect. But I see through it. I see you. The real you. The one who bites her nails when she’s nervous, who hesitates before hitting “post,” who reads poetry to feel something deeper than the surface-level bullshit the rest of the world seems content with.
Someday, you’ll thank me for this. For all of it. For the plans, the patience, the endless hours spent studying every detail of you. You’ll see it for what it is: love. Pure. Uncompromising. Undeniable. And when you do, you’ll say my name, not like you did tonight, casually, carelessly. No. You’ll say it with love, with need, with all the gratitude of someone who’s been waiting her whole life for this.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen. The glow reflects off the glass of the vase holding the bouquet I bought from you. Your bouquet. The flowers are starting to wilt, their petals curling at the edges. Beautiful, even in decay. I’ll keep them until they rot, until they crumble into nothing, because they’re yours.
Nothing lasts forever. But us? We're different.