12. Sasha

12

SASHA

I hadn’t planned on reading tonight. In fact, as I walk into the bookstore, all I want is to slip into the comforting anonymity of the crowd, to blend into the buzzing atmosphere of Saturday night poetry at Evie’s. I’ve spent the day trying to shake off the tension of that unexpected message on my phone, telling myself over and over that the past can’t touch me here. And when I see Evie up on stage, reading that poem, the way her voice carries softly through the room, I know I made the right choice to come.

The bookstore is more alive than I’ve ever seen it. Chairs fill up quickly, the low hum of conversation mixing with the strumming of Mr. Dupree’s guitar. Wine flows, laughter bubbles up, and there is this infectious energy in the air that makes everything feel just a little bit brighter. It’s the kind of night that makes me think anything is possible, and Evie is at the center of it all, orchestrating the magic like she was born to do it.

I linger by the back shelves, watching as the night unfolds. Performers come and go, each leaving a little piece of themselves on the stage. There was a young woman with a trembling voice who read about first loves and heartbreaks; an older man with a booming laugh who spun stories like they were old jazz records; and Malik, who stood at the mic with his head down but his words sharp and clear, cutting through the noise with a quiet confidence that I admire.

I should be happy just to watch, to take it all in from the safety of my corner. But as the night goes on, I can’t shake the restless feeling in my chest. My fingers keep finding their way to the crumpled notebook in my bag, tracing the edges of the pages where I’d scrawled bits and pieces of a poem earlier in the week. It isn’t finished—not even close—but it feels urgent, like something I need to say, even if I’m not sure who I’m saying it to.

I glance at Evie, who is leaning against the counter, smiling at something Kenneth has said. She looks so at home, so effortlessly part of this place, and when her eyes meet mine, I feel a jolt of something I can’t quite name. It’s like she can see right through me, past all the walls I’ve built, and in that moment, I want nothing more than to be part of her world, to step out of the shadows and into the light she seems to radiate.

Before I can talk myself out of it, my feet move toward the stage. My heart is hammering, my palms suddenly slick with nerves, but there is no turning back now. The next reader has just finished, and the mic is open, waiting for the next voice. My voice.

I hesitate at the edge of the stage, feeling the weight of every eye in the room on me. I don’t do this often—not like this, not without preparation. But something about tonight, about this place and these people, make me feel like maybe I can. Maybe I need to.

Evie catches my eye again, and she gives me a small, encouraging nod. It’s all the push I need.

I step up to the mic, my throat tight and dry, and adjust it to my height. The room falls quiet, a silence that’s both terrifying and exhilarating. I glance down at my notebook, the messy handwriting staring back at me, and take a deep breath.

“Uh, hey,” I begin, my voice cracking slightly. “I wasn’t planning to read tonight, but...I don’t know. There’s something about this place that just pulls you in, right? So, I figured I’d share something I’ve been working on. It’s, well, it’s still rough, but it’s real, and I guess that’s what matters.”

I can see Evie from the corner of my eye, her expression warm and attentive, and it gives me the courage to start. I look down at the page, and as I begin to read, the words feel less like mine and more like something that has been waiting to be spoken.

“We speak in whispers, soft and slow,

Afraid of things we don’t yet know.

In glances shared and words unsaid,

We tiptoe toward what lies ahead.

A spark, a smile, a fleeting touch,

A promise that we want too much.

We build our bridges, one by one,

Afraid to fall, but drawn to run.

The walls we keep are thin as air,

A fragile shield we always wear.

But here, tonight, with you so near,

I find it’s worth the risk to care.

We write the stories on our skin,

The places where the light gets in.

And though the end’s a mystery,

I’m here for all that’s yet to be.”

As the last words leave my lips, I let out a breath. The silence that follows is thick, not with judgment, but with something else—an understanding, a connection that I don’t expect. I glance up, and the room is still, every face turned toward me, every eye holding a glimmer of something that makes my heart swell.

I haven’t realized how much I need this. The release of it, the feeling of being heard, of letting the walls come down just a little. There is a moment of quiet, then the room erupts in applause, warm and genuine, washing over me like a wave. I feel the weight of it, the affirmation that my voice matters here, that I’m not alone in whatever I’m feeling.

As I step down from the stage, my legs a little shaky, I make my way back toward the shelves, the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins. I am overwhelmed, but in the best way, caught between the rush of the performance and the realization that this place, this night, is becoming something more to me.

The room feels suddenly too full, too charged, and I slip out the back door to get air, the cool night air hitting me like a splash of water. I lean against the brick wall, closing my eyes and letting the quiet settle around me. My heart is still racing, but there is a sense of calm beneath it, a kind of peace I haven’t felt in a long time.

The door opens softly, and I look up to see Evie step out, her expression a mix of pride and something softer, something that makes my stomach flip. She doesn’t say anything at first, just moves to stand beside me, her shoulder brushing mine as she leans against the wall.

“You were amazing,” she says finally, her voice low and sincere. “I’m so glad you read.”

I shrug, trying to play it off, but the compliment warms me in a way I’m not prepared for. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure... I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve done anything like that, reading without being prepared. But this place, it just makes you want to, you know?”

Evie nods, her eyes fixed on the street beyond. “I get it. That’s why I keep doing these nights. It’s like the room gives you permission to be exactly who you are. No judgment, no pressure, just space to be real.”

I glance at her, catching the hint of vulnerability in her words. She’s built this place, this haven, not just for others, but for herself too. It’s part of her, just like the poems she reads, the way she moves through the crowd, the smile she gives to every performer who stepped up to the mic. I feel a surge of admiration for her, mixed with the thrill of knowing I am becoming part of this world she’s created.

“I almost didn’t come tonight,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it. “I got this weird message earlier, and it just...rattled me, I guess. Made me want to hide.”

Evie looks at me, her gaze steady and reassuring. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad you’re here.”

I feel a smile tug at my lips, small but genuine. “Me too. And hey, your poem, it was perfect. I could listen to you read all day.”

She laughs softly, the sound like music in the quiet alley. “You might be the only one who thinks that.”

“Not a chance,” I say, turning to face her fully. “You have this way of making everything feel lighter. I don’t know how to explain it. Like being around you makes things better.”

Evie’s cheeks flush, and for a moment, she looks almost shy. “That’s really nice to hear. I’ve been thinking a lot today about why I do this, why I keep this place going. And it’s because of moments like this. People like you.”

We stand there, the night wrapping around us like a warm blanket, the distant sounds of the bookstore filtering through the door. There is so much I want to say, but I don’t know how to put it into words. All I know is that I want more of this—more nights like tonight, more moments with Evie, more of the feeling that has been building since the moment I walked into the bookstore that first time.

“So, what’s next?” Evie asks, her voice soft and tentative, like she’s testing the waters of whatever is happening between us.

I think about it, about the uncertainty of the future, the weight of the past, and the possibility of something new. I reach for her hand, linking my fingers with hers, and give it a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I’m here for it. Whatever it is.”

Evie smiles, her eyes bright with unspoken promise. “Yeah. Me too.”

And as we stand there under the soft glow of the streetlights with the bookstore’s muffled sounds of poetry and music behind us, I know that this is where I’m supposed to be.

The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken words and the quiet rhythm of our breaths mingling in the cool night. Evie’s hand is still in mine, warm and reassuring, grounding me in the moment. The way her fingers tightens slightly around mine sends a spark of something hot and electric through me, something I’ve been trying to ignore but can no longer deny.

Her eyes search mine, full of something deep and unguarded that makes my heart beat faster. There’s a softness there, a quiet intensity that pulls me in. For a moment, neither of us speak, the space between us thick with anticipation, with the weight of everything unsaid.

Evie takes a small step closer, the movement slow, deliberate, like she is giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t. I can’t. I am rooted to the spot, caught in the pull of her presence, the nearness of her. The soft glow of the streetlights play over her features, casting delicate shadows on her skin, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by how close she is, by the quiet, intimate moment we’ve found ourselves in.

Her free hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face, and I feel a shiver run through me at the lightness of her touch. She lingers there, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of my mouth in a gesture so tender it makes my breath hitch.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper, thick with the vulnerability of the moment. Evie’s eyes flickers with something raw and unguarded, and in that heartbeat, she moves closer, her lips brushing mine in the gentlest, softest kiss. It’s tentative at first, a careful exploration, as if she is feeling out the edges of something fragile. Her lips are warm and soft, and she tastes faintly of the wine we’ve been drinking, sweet and a little bold.

The kiss deepens slowly, and I feel everything else slip away—the noise from the bookstore, the hum of the city beyond, even the lingering doubts that has haunted me earlier. All that matters is this—the slow, deliberate press of her lips against mine, the way she moves with a careful, deliberate hunger that sends warmth pooling in my chest.

Evie’s hand slides up, cupping the back of my neck, her fingers threading through my hair as she pulls me closer. I sink into her touch, my own hands finding their way to her waist, feeling the soft curve of her body beneath my palms. The kiss is unhurried, like we have all the time in the world, and every brush of her lips feels like a promise, a silent affirmation that this is real, that we are real.

I can feel the smile ghosting on her lips as she kisses me, a playful tease that makes my stomach flutter. She pulls back just a fraction, her forehead resting against mine, her breath mingling with my own in the small, shared space between us. My heart races and my skin tingles from the warmth of her touch, and for a moment, I just close my eyes, letting myself be held in the quiet.

Evie’s thumb traces a gentle line along my cheek, her touch tender and sure. I open my eyes, meeting her gaze, and see the soft glow of affection mixing with something deeper, something that makes my pulse quicken. She leans in again, her lips brushing against mine with a slow, deliberate intensity that makes my knees feel weak.

She kisses me like she’s savoring every second, like she’s pouring every unspoken word, every hesitant feeling into the moment. It is soft but insistent, a careful blend of need and restraint, and I melt into it, my hands pulling her closer, wanting more of her, of this. Each kiss feels like a promise, a slow unveiling of everything we are too scared to say aloud.

When she finally pulls back, her breath warm against my lips, she doesn’t move far. Her lips linger near my ear, and I feel her words more than hear them, the soft, whispered promise that sends a shiver through me.

“Later, you’re mine.”

Her voice is low, tinged with a quiet possessiveness that makes my skin flush and my heart skip a beat. It’s a promise wrapped in heat, a pledge of something more to come, and it fills me with a heady, giddy anticipation.

I can’t help but smile, my forehead still pressed to hers, the moment suspended between us like a secret. There is something intoxicating about the way she said it, the quiet certainty in her voice.

“Yeah,” I whisper, my voice soft but sure. “Later.”

We stay like that for a moment longer, wrapped up in the warmth of each other, the night holding us in a tender embrace with a whispered promise of more, and the quiet, undeniable truth that I am hers, just as much as she is mine.