1

DARK POP MUSIC STREAMS from the speakers mounted to the corners of the walls. I close my eyes, inhaling the smell of books and coffee, letting the music seep into my bones and soothe me. Any lingering stress melts away, fading into the background. I drum my fingers to the beat as I organize the books on the shelf closest to the counter. For a moment, everything is perfect.

The swish of a curtain that divides the front of the store from the back room signals Priya's arrival. "Ophelia…did you take over my speakers with your playlist again?"

My eyes open to see my boss standing behind the counter. Her brown hands rest on her narrow hips in mock anger, her dark brows arched in a question. But behind the attempt to look stern, there's a light in her chocolate brown eyes. Amusement that matches the smile tugging on her lips. It falls apart as she shakes her head, unable to keep up the act any longer. She brushes her shoulder-length dark hair out of her face, still smiling.

"Maybe I did." I smirk. "Or perhaps the radio station is finally gaining taste."

"So the classical music station decided to start playing your punk music?"

I rise from my seat on the floor where I have been organizing a stack of books on a lower shelf. "First of all, this isn't punk. There's no screaming or whining about your parents in these songs. This is quality music. Second, I needed something edgier than Bach and Brahms."

It's Priya's turn to smirk now. I know she doesn't care too much about what plays on her speakers. But she loves to tease me.

"As long as you put it back to the store's playlist once you're finished with your work. music."

"You know, my music fits the vibe of the store way more."

Priya shakes her head, never losing her smile. She begins organizing some books and figurines behind the counter.

Darkest Night Bookstore is a shadowy, atmospheric place. Dark tapestries, navy blue and black, hang from the walls. The bookshelves are black, with fake ivy on some of them. Fairy lights hang from the ceiling, giving the room a warm glow. Two windows at the front of the store bring in a lot of natural light. The recessed lighting in the ceiling gives the same warm glow as the fairy lights.

This place was my safe haven growing up. Priya was in her mid-twenties when she opened it with her husband ten years ago. Before he became her estranged husband.

They were still running the place together when I was thirteen. I remember saving up the money to come in here and buy a book every few weeks. Of course, I wasn't alone in my book-buying endeavors. But that was a different time.

One I don't care to reflect on.

I start to move towards the back bookshelves, noticing that some books aren't where they belong. As I organize, the bell above the door rings and I hear Priya greet the customer. We're slow for a Wednesday. This place is somewhat of a tourist attraction to our sleepy little town, but today there aren't many customers.

"Do you need help finding something?" Priya asks the customer, but her voice is tight, almost strained.

I reshelve some books that were left on the floor.

"No, I'm just… looking around," the customer says.

I freeze. I glance around the corner, but from where I am, I can't see the door. Something tugs at my heart, begging me to go to the front and see who this is. My mind must be playing games with me. Because there is no possibility that it's who I think it is.

But that voice…

My mind fills with a flash of blue eyes and dark hair, the smell of old leather journals and books. Summers lying in the grass, under the old oak tree in the park, reading through a shared book together. It couldn't be, though. He only comes to town every few months, and he surely wouldn't set foot in this store. Not after all this time.

I'm frozen where I am as the sound of footfalls nears, then retreats. Almost imperceptible. Almost as if they don't exist.

I set down the book in my hand, unable to take the uncertainty any longer. I make my way through the rows of shelves, but the bell rings again before I make my way to the front. And when I finally emerge to the light, Priya is alone. Her smile is calm and her eyes are relaxed.

She'd tell me if it was him .

Wouldn't she?

"Finished with the back corner?" she asks, flipping through one of the few magazines she orders for the store each month.

"Almost. I have a few more books to fix."

"Okay. When you're done, let me know. I think I'm closing early. It's been pretty slow today."

"Yeah," I say softly, heading back to my corner. I'm not one to think of the past unless it comes back up. But I'd know that deep voice anywhere, even though it's gotten deeper since I've heard it. He only said one thing.

One sentence.

Yet it repeats in my mind like it was something more.

I hate how I'd know him anywhere. I hate that not even the passage of time can make the memories fade away into oblivion.

I will always know Atlas Jameson, in the depths of my soul, whether I want to or not.

At least he's gone now. Priya never hinted to him that I was here. She probably wanted to protect me from any more hurt caused by his actions.

But she can't protect me from what's already happened.

I finish with the books not long after. I pull my coat on and grab my purse from the break room. "I'll see you tomorrow," I say to Priya.

"Enjoy the rest of your day," she says with a kind smile, following me to the door. I glance back once more. Priya waves before locking the door behind me, but there's a hint of worry in her eyes as she watches me go. Worry that I will find something outside the shop that I don't want to find.

There's an ache in my chest, something tugging me back to memories I don't want to visit. I don't want to think about the past. Not when I've come so far in healing my heart.

The autumn wind brushes against my face, blowing my hair around. Leaves tangle and turn through the air. Something about the smell of it all is breathtaking.

Or maybe I romanticize too much.

I glance over at Every Brew Café, to a boy with dark hair and soft eyes sitting at a table in the outside space. His lightweight hoodie looks too thin for the season. But I know he's not cold; he's always one to feel warm even in the coldest of winters.

I blink, thinking I must be going crazy. My heart picks up its pace as I hurry past, not wanting him to see me.

I'm losing my mind. That's all. There's no way. Just keep walking.

Something inside me yearns to look back, but I refuse. It's not him. It can't be him.

My mind wanders through memories I've long since buried as I finish my walk home. I hate the way I'm thinking of everything once again.

I enter my lonely house, empty and quiet. My dad is working either his second or third shift, and won't be home until tomorrow afternoon.

Sometimes the quiet is loud. I have to steady my breath to prevent the tears building up behind my eyes from falling. I'm not going to cry over Atlas Jameson after all these years.

I shrug off my coat, hanging it on the rack with my purse.

Tears still sting in my eyes, causing me to blink rapidly. I refuse to let them fall.

Erasing a whole year from your mind is hard. But I've done it before. I can't afford to let all my work go to waste.

I shudder at the sudden chill in the room. "What am I supposed to do?" I say out loud. No one's listening. But sometimes I talk out loud, hoping for some sort of answer.

But that's not how anything works.

As the evening light wanes, I find myself in the kitchen. The only sound in the apartment is the stir-fry sizzling in the skillet. I usually play music while I cook, but even that won't take the edge off now.

The aroma of peppers and onions fills the house, but I barely notice it; my mind is running rampant elsewhere. Even the taste of the food is dull to my senses, despite the fresh seasonings.

Nothing is going to cure the terrible taste Atlas leaves in my mouth.

I finish eating my dinner, and then find myself in my room. I wash my face and change into my pajamas before collapsing onto my bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I will myself to forget. To let it all go. It doesn't matter if he's in town visiting his mom. It doesn't matter that he decided to set foot in the one place I'm safe.

It's been five years. I've lived long enough without him to not be affected anymore.

But it's a lie. The emotions are too heavy, too broken for me to fight through.

Everything in my being desires to be wrong. But I know that I will never forget the voice or the face of the one person who promised to always be there.

It's us against the world.

The words repeat like a broken record, stuck on one line of a song, echoing in my ears.

He said it like a promise he intended to keep. But promises were broken, and he skipped town before I could catch my breath.

I will not break for him again.