Written by: Anonymous
I passed by the bookshop today.
It looked comfortingly quiet in the midst of the rain, so I decided to walk in. Impulsive decisions are never my thing, I’m sure you know, but I had the time. I figured there’s no harm in doing so. The breeze of the air conditioner hit harder through my already soaked shirt, but there is a feeling similar to coming home settling in my stomach, like waking up in a rainy morning to a cup of coffee on the table. I smiled at the lady at the counter, and browsed.
It still looks the same as the last time I came here. One of the books on the staff picks shelf is still what it was the last time I came here. I might have lingered on the cookbook section for way too long this time, though. You know I make my meals myself now? My toasts are still slightly burnt but I spent less time – only having to make coffee for me alone. There is no logic to it. I stood at the corner flipping through dishes I would never be able to – or have the courage to try. But they are still beautiful, and worth my time.
I sat down under the stairs by the give me a new home! SALE 2 books just for $4! pile. My hands ran through the loved, weary spines -the titles unfamiliar, but not unwelcoming. Altered States. The 27th Kingdom. The Passage to India. I sat and thought about the homes that covered over these books – the hands that flip through the pages, steaming coffee a few distance from it. It felt like a different world – the way the margins are crinkled and scribbled on. The underlines that made me wonder on why those lines were significant.
May this help you find answers to the questions you keep stuffed away in a corner of your heart, a message in pencil says in cursive handwriting. There is no name – not the sender, not the owner. I tuck the book back into the pile. It’s getting a little bit too intimate in this corner. Too stuffy, too claustrophobic, too full of–
You know what I didn’t do, though?
I didn’t look back. I did not linger at the mystery section. I did not stand at the exact corner you wrapped your arm around my waist and kissed my forehead before reaching for the high shelves for me. I did not pick up the book you spent 15 minutes flipping through the last time we were here, me jittering waiting for you to hurry. I did not stop and pick up a title because I thought you’d like it.
I passed the bookstore today, and I found that there are still corners that are mine. The cookbook display and the tall travel book shelves. The me who makes coffee for one. The margins that are clean and unfolded, unwritten on. The title a girl who sits next to me at lunchtime recommended. And one day I will be able to stand on the mystery section and not think of your deadly touch and how I will never know why you left.
For now, though —
I walk away from the pile of books under the stairs. My bag a little lighter. One day someone will sort through the book pile and find your handwriting on the first page of a green-covered book. I wonder if they would stop and linger for a moment on the leftover shadow of you and me when they catch the thick, black ink;
This would be forevermore.
Inkling. 