Epilogue
One random Wednesday afternoon in June, I found myself inside Lost Books—one hand wrapped around a decaf Spanish latte while the other trailed lazily along the shelves.
The place was tiny, but it smelled like paper, coffee beans, and rain trapped inside wood. Honestly? Heaven.
Warm yellow lamps glowed softly against the green shelves stacked too tightly with books that looked loved instead of displayed.
Some were arranged neatly while others leaned carelessly against each other like they had stories of their own.
Small tables sat at either corners of the very small space, cluttered with cups, and half-finished journals abandoned mid-thought.
Plants spilled from corners and high shelves, softening the place further. And somewhere near the back sat the café, tucked tightly into the bookstore like an afterthought that somehow completed the entire space.
Despite being in the middle of the city, the bookstore always felt suspended outside of time. Like Southside kept rushing somewhere else while Lost Books quietly refused to follow.
I scanned the fiction section absentmindedly, tilting my latte slightly as I read spines one by one.
Then suddenly, a light tap landed against my shoulder.
I turned around and immediately smiled.
“Hey, Southside King!”
The owner of the bookstore grinned at me.
His name was D—shorter than me by a few inches and dressed in a crisp white button-down with sleeves folded neatly to his elbows.
He carried himself with the effortless friendliness of someone who had spent years building a place people wanted to return to.
His face was warm and approachable in that rare way that made strangers instantly comfortable around him.
“Hi, D,” I laughed softly. “Love your place, as always.”
He placed one hand dramatically over his chest. “As you should.”
I chuckled.
“You added more books!”
“And less space,” he corrected proudly, looking around. “Which means success.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“It’s called ambiance, King.”
We both laughed at that.
And then eventually, the laughter softened.
D studied me for a second. Not too intensely, but just enough.
Then he asked quietly, “Are you okay now?”
The question settled gently between us.
And for a moment, I looked away.
Past the shelves.
Past the warm bookstore lights.
Past the version of myself that once thought heartbreak would permanently ruin me.
Was I okay?
It had been four months.
I thought about the past year, and strangely… my chest no longer collapsed under the weight of it.
A small smile slowly pulled at my mouth as I looked back at D.
“You know what,” I said softly, “I think I am.”
And for the first time in a very long time, I truly meant it.
D smiled at me like he understood more than I said aloud.
Then he squeezed my shoulder lightly. “Good.”
A few seconds later, someone called him from the back.
He pointed dramatically at me while walking backwards. “Spend more money before you leave.”
“I already brought coffee!”
“Not enough!”
I laughed as he disappeared in the café.
And suddenly, standing there alone between shelves of old books, I realized something strange.
Southside finally no longer felt like a graveyard to me.
It felt like home… again.
A moment later, I stepped out of Lost Books looking down at my newly bought book, wrapped neatly in brown paper, reading the funny note that D had written on it:
You know, I realized your story was never about your broken heart. It was about the people who never broke it and fixed it anyway. —D
A smile stayed on my face as I walked a few steps away from the bookstore before turning back toward it.
At night, the bookshop looked even softer somehow.
Warm golden bulbs spilled from the windows, making the tiny bookstore glow against the darker street around it like a hidden place the city accidentally forgot to ruin.
I took three slow steps backward so I could admire it properly.
Then sighed softly.
“This bookstore is so beautiful.”
The voice startled me slightly.
I turned my head toward the sound and realized someone had been standing two feet away the entire time.
And God, my heart skipped embarrassingly fast.
For a second, all I noticed was his side profile that glowed beneath the string lights above us.
Sharp jawline. Soft mouth. Dark hair slightly messy like he had stopped caring about fixing it halfway through the night.
Then he turned toward me fully.
And somehow, he looked even better.
Is this what they call organic encounter?
He wore a deep blue shirt, his expression relaxed and thoughtful in a way that immediately made him feel familiar despite being a stranger.
I smiled faintly.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “My favorite place in the city.”
He smiled back.
And his eyes smiled too.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
We just stood there, side by side, looking at the bookstore while the city hummed quietly from behind us.
Then I glanced toward him again.
“I haven’t seen you around before.”
He looked at me briefly before letting out a small, amused breath.
“I’m from Manila,” he said. “And Cebu is large, though.”
I chuckled immediately, warmth creeping embarrassingly into my cheeks.
“Of course,” I muttered.
His smile widened slightly at that.
Then he extended one hand toward me.
“I’m Justin,” he said.
I looked down at his hand for half a second before smiling again.
“James.”
Our hands met briefly.
Warm.
Easy.
Then we let go.
And somehow, neither of us moved right away after that.
Instead, we both looked back toward the glowing bookstore again while the silence between us settled into something unexpectedly comfortable.
A few seconds later, I caught him glancing sideways at me.
I did the same.
A part of me wanted to laugh, because apparently, after everything, I was still me.
Still noticing beautiful strangers.
Still getting butterflies over eye contact.
Still carrying enough hope to imagine possibilities where none existed yet.
Who would I be without the overdramatic emotions, the emotional breakdowns, and the unfortunate habit of treating every almost-love like it might be the love of my life?
The difference now was that I no longer needed every spark to become a fire.
Some people were simply people.
Some moments were simply moments.
And standing there beneath the soft lights of Southside, with a wrapped book in one hand and the city breathing gently around us, I realized something about love:
I used to think healing meant never getting your heart broken again. Now I think it means knowing you’ll survive if it happens.
And for the first time in a very long time, the future felt exciting instead of frightening.
And just like that… I knew.