Chapter 18 #2
He rubs the back of his neck, like the memory still surprises him.
‘We hadn’t been all that close over the last few years.
I was in Melbourne, working a job that didn’t feel like mine anymore.
Waking up in a city that just kept getting louder.
’ He glances down to his hands, like they are grounding him.
‘She used to send me books every now and then. There was never a note, just titles she thought I needed.’
I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m not sure what to say.
‘I always used to joke that I’d own a bookstore one day, that I’d be able to fill it with all the ones she sent me over the years.
’ He looks at me, a soft smile at his lips.
‘So, when this place ended up in my hands, I packed up my life and came here. I figured maybe she was trying to tell me something. Maybe it is time to stop hiding or running.’
My chest tightens at the way he says it. It isn’t dramatic or rehearsed, it’s just
honest. He stands up holding his hand out for me to take. I hesitate for a moment, and he smiles down at me. We start walking towards the stalls.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly.
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t be. She would have loved what it’s becoming. Especially now that it has all the fairy lights.’
I laugh, but it catches in my throat. He’s built a life from grief and quiet longing. I’m still trying to write my way out of mine.
He nudges me gently with his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah.’ I clear my throat. ‘That’s a wonderful reason to start something.’
Lucas smiles faintly. ‘Sometimes you just know when something’s worth turning the page for.’
We pause there long enough that I feel the air shift between us.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I feel my pulse skip.
He leans in, slow and certain, giving me every chance to pull away.
His hand finds the crook of my elbow, then slides down to my wrist, thumb resting over my pulse.
I don’t move. My chin tips up, our noses nearly brush.
The paper bag rustles against my ribs like its holding its breath for me.
‘Lucas,’ I whisper. Not sure if I mean wait or yes.
A burst of laughter erupts from the stall behind us, breaking the moment. A group squeezes past, apologising as they brush between us, and the spell unravels. He steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, and I pretend to adjust the paper bag in my arms.
For a second, I almost wish he would close the distance again, to finish what he started. But I know myself too well. This is where I always pull back. Where I tell myself it’s better to stay safe and to pretend it was nothing, than admit how much I wanted something.
I press the paper bag tighter to my chest and try to swallow the ache that shouldn’t be there after a maybe-almost kiss.
He clears his throat, says something about the next stall, and I nod like I’m fine. But inside, it feels like I’ve been half-written and left hanging mid-sentence.
We move towards the next stall. As we round the corner, I stop, noticing the scene that’s unfolding in front of my eyes. A dog-eared copy of Persuasion, the poetry book bound in red thread. A man in wire-frame glasses, holding a book and telling the seller it’s for his niece’s birthday.
My breath catches.
I wrote this. This moment, these exact details, months ago. I thought I made it up. It was just fiction, wasn't it?
This isn’t the first time either. Trivia night, the breakup, Nettie giving me the cafe. Now here it is again. My story looping back, bleeding into the edges of my life. I scan the scene one more time, half convinced I’ll find my own handwriting on the stall’s sign.
My face drains of colour, my fingers tightening into fists.
Lucas glances at me, instantly alert. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘Just déjà vu.’
But inside, something is spiralling, because this scene isn’t just familiar. It is mine.
We pass a stall selling bookish candles, Lucas picks one up and dramatically reads the label, ‘Enemies to Lovers smells like tension, banter, and unresolved issues.’
I snort. ‘That sounds like my last relationship.’
‘Is he the enemy or the unresolved issue?’ Lucas asks.
‘Both, with bonus poor communication skills,’ I reply.
He grins. ‘I suddenly feel like very stiff competition.’
We stop in front of a wire basket full of vintage bookmarks. Most are yellowed or creased, a few laminated with pressed flowers sealed inside.
I reach out at the same time he does. Our fingers brush, and we both freeze, laughing.
‘You first.’ He gestures towards the basket.
I glance sideways at him. ‘You always let people go first?’
Lucas shrugs. ‘Only the ones I hope come back.’
The words land heavier than they probably should have. He has this quiet kind of sincerity, something you don’t expect from someone you barely know.
I sift through the pile until I find one made of worn leather, a faded quote pressed into the edge: Leave space for the things that grow slowly. My thumb traces the words.
‘This reminds me of something someone once told me,’ I say. ‘About not rushing the ending just because the middle is hard.’
‘Someone wise?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘Or someone who’d watched me fall apart one too many times.’
There is a pause.
‘I got out of a relationship not long ago.’ The words come slower now. ‘It wasn’t the right story, but I stayed too long trying to rewrite the ending.’
I couldn’t look at him when I said it. Choosing to focus on the soft fraying edge of the leather. Eventually, he reaches into the basket and pulls out a bookmark of his own. A blue one, with the word "return" pressed into the bottom.
‘Sometimes starting over doesn’t mean going back,’ he assures me. ‘Just finding your way forward with less noise.’
I finally look at him and, for the first time in a long time, I feel understood without having to explain everything.
I smile as I purchase the bookmark. We stroll back towards the car park, this time holding hands on purpose.
The buzz of the fair fading behind us, replaced by birdsong and the soft crunch of gravel beneath our shoes.
When we reach my car, I pause, one hand on the door. Lucas stops too, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, but not too close.
‘I had fun,’ I tell him.
He smiles. ‘Me too.’
There is a moment, just long enough to decide for us.
When he leans in, it is slow and intentional. His hand brushes mine first, barely there, like he is asking a question without speaking it. I could pull away, but I don't.
The kiss is soft, un-rushed, just a press of lips. It lit something wild beneath my ribs, a warm spark I feel everywhere.
When we pull apart, the air between us feels altered.
He lets out a jagged breath. ‘Text me when you get home,’ his voice rougher than before.
‘Okay,’ I reply, lips still parted. My pulse still stammering.
LILAH: Home
LUCAS: Good. Sleep well.
Journal Entry - Saturday 23rd August
What if I didn’t just write about heartbreak? What if I accidentally wrote a happy ending, and now it’s trying to find me?
I want to believe in it, but part of me still thinks this is the chapter before everything falls apart again. Still, maybe this time, I’ll let the story unfold before I try to rewrite it.
xx