3. Evie

3

EVIE

I t’s a quiet Wednesday evening, the kind of night when the bookstore feels more like a sanctuary than a business. The midweek poetry nights are smaller, more intimate, just a handful of us gathered in the soft glow of the lamps scattered around the room. The hum of the city outside feels distant, muted by the thick walls and the comforting presence of books.

These Wednesday sessions aren’t as busy as the weekend ones, but there’s something special about them. The regulars who come midweek are the ones who have found their rhythm here. They know the space, they know each other, and they come not just to perform but to listen, to let the words sink in more deeply without the distraction of a bustling crowd. There’s a peacefulness to it, a slower, quieter appreciation for the craft.

Tonight, there’s a young man standing up at the microphone. He’s new to the scene, just started at the state college. He’s got that fresh, eager look about him. His face is still rounded with youth, and his clothes are a little too neatly pressed, like he’s trying to fit in without losing himself in the process. He’s clutching a notebook in both hands, the paper shaking ever so slightly, and his eyes keep darting up from the page to the few of us scattered around the room, as if he’s searching for some sign of approval.

His voice is soft, almost too soft for spoken poetry, but the words—there’s something special there. He writes beautifully. His lines are intricate, delicate even, like lacework carefully stitched together. There’s potential in his work, something raw and promising, but I can tell he’s struggling to let it breathe in front of an audience. His shyness weighs down his delivery, making him stumble over the words and hiding the beauty of the images he’s crafted behind a nervous whisper.

I sit in the back, watching him carefully and listening to the quiet brilliance of his work that’s just waiting to break through. But spoken poetry might not be for him—not yet, anyway. He’s the kind of writer who needs time and space to grow into his voice, to let it find the strength to match the power of his pen. I can see it, even if he can’t just yet.

The others in the room are kind, offering encouraging nods and soft smiles, trying to put him at ease. He finishes his poem, his voice trailing off like he’s not sure if he’s really done, and there’s a moment of quiet before we applaud, warm and genuine. He looks relieved, but still unsure, like he’s not quite convinced he belongs here.

Afterward, he quietly retreats to a chair in the corner, his notebook clutched tightly against his chest, and I find myself hoping he’ll keep coming back. He’s got something, that much is clear. And maybe with time, he’ll learn to let his words take up the space they deserve. For now, though, I’m just happy to have him here, to be part of his journey, even if it’s only a small part.

This is why I love these midweek nights. They’re quieter, sure, but there’s something about the space we create here, something that allows for growth and discovery in ways the busier weekend crowds don’t always allow. It’s a place for the tentative, the uncertain, the ones still finding their voice. And tonight, it feels like we’ve planted a seed that, with a little patience, might just bloom into something beautiful.

The door swings open, and a gust of the outside world rushes in with it—humid, heavy, and full of life. It disrupts the stillness of the bookstore, the scent of rain and street vendors mixing with the soft light inside. I glance up, half-expecting another regular, but what I see catches me entirely off guard.

She’s late, bustling in with a kind of hurried energy, her presence instantly commanding the room. She has dark, windswept hair that’s half pulled back, messy in the way that suggests it wasn’t styled to be perfect, but it somehow works. She’s breathing a little too fast, her chest rising and falling under a loose, cropped sweater, as if she’d been running to get here. Her eyes, sharp and alive, dart around the room, scanning to see if she’s missed everything. They’re the kind of eyes that don’t just see, they search —deep, piercing, as if they could unravel a person with a single glance.

The moment our eyes meet, it’s like the air in the room shifts. Something inside me jolts, like a spark igniting from deep within. It’s intense, unexpected, and I have to remind myself to breathe. I’m rooted to the spot, my fingers curling tighter around the coffee cup in front of me, grounding myself against the sudden rush of emotion. There’s a gravity to her, a force that seems to pull everything in the room toward her, even me.

She’s dressed casually, but there’s something about her presence that makes it feel deliberate. A pair of worn jeans, boots that look like they’ve seen more than a few cities, and that sweater—half falling off one shoulder, exposing a tattoo I can’t quite make out from where I’m sitting. There’s a quiet defiance in the way she carries herself, a sense that she’s completely herself and yet somehow unpredictable.

She pauses, her eyes locking onto mine for the briefest of moments, and the intensity doubles. It’s like the room narrows, the sound of shuffling papers and soft murmurs fading into the background. My heart skips—literally misses a beat—and I can’t explain why. It’s as if she brings the storm inside with her, carrying the weight of something more than just herself.

She exhales, and in that moment, I feel it—a connection, a pull I can’t name but can’t ignore. I have no idea who she is, but I know this much: I need to find out.

Just as I’m trying to get a grip on this sudden, inexplicable feeling, she stops and turns back toward the door. That’s when I see him. She reaches for his hand and pulls him inside with her, like she’s anchoring him to her world. They’re an unlikely pair at first glance, but the way she grips his hand so naturally makes me think they must be a couple.

He is striking in a different way. Tall and lean, with a kind of ethereal presence that feels both here and not here at the same time. His skin is pale, his features sharp and angular, almost delicate, with high cheekbones that make him look like he’s stepped out of a painting. His hair is cut short on the sides but long on top, a wave of platinum blond that contrasts against the dark, loose clothing he wears—an oversized black shirt and fitted jeans. His eyes are a piercing blue, sharp and clear like glass, and they seem to reflect everything around him with an intensity that mirrors hers.

Together, they create this magnetic contrast—her with her wild, restless energy and him with his quiet, almost ghostly calm. He doesn’t speak, just glances around the room, taking everything in with a gaze that feels far older than his years. When their hands are clasped together, it’s impossible not to notice the way they fit—two pieces of some larger puzzle, like they were made to balance each other.

I can’t help but assume they’re together. There’s a certain ease in the way they stand next to each other, a natural closeness that suggests something deeper than friendship. For a moment, I feel a flicker of disappointment that I quickly try to shake off. It’s silly, irrational even, to feel anything at all about someone I’ve never met before, but that pull between me and the girl from moments ago still lingers in the air like an unfinished conversation.

He steps forward, still holding her hand, and looks around the room before speaking. His voice is soft, almost too soft for a place like this, but it carries in the silence.

“Is there space for another poet tonight?” he asks, his words directed more to the room than to anyone in particular. But in a space like this, all eyes naturally turn to me.

There’s a brief pause, the air hanging thick with anticipation, and I find myself nodding before I can even think about it. “Of course,” I say, my voice a little steadier than I feel inside. I glance at the makeshift stage at the front of the room and back at him, catching a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face.

The room shifts ever so slightly, the energy changing as he steps forward, and I know tonight is going to be different.

He releases her hand and steps up to the microphone, and the room seems to contract around him. His presence, understated as it is, pulls us all in. There’s a kind of quiet intensity to him—nothing exaggerated, nothing forced, but something about the way he carries himself demands attention. The usual rustling of papers, shifting in seats, even the occasional cough—all of it fades away. You could hear a pin drop.

He stands there for a moment, letting the silence settle, before he begins. His voice, soft and measured, flows through the room, each word like a delicate thread connecting us all.

"We build ourselves in the reflection of another,

Construct our edges with the way they look at us,

Like glass blown in the heat of affection,

Curved and fragile, held together by the warmth of their gaze.

I stand in front of you,

A reflection of the love you’ve given me,

Clear, but not unbreakable ? —

And you don’t know it, but you hold me in your hands,

Gentle at first, as if you know I’m brittle.

But then comes the pressure,

The weight of your fingers tracing lines across my surface,

And suddenly, the cracks begin to form,

Hairline fractures that start small,

Invisible unless you’re looking closely.

Do you see it? Do you notice?

The way I start to chip, to splinter under your touch,

The way the light no longer bends through me the same way,

Because I am no longer whole.

And in that moment, when the glass finally shatters,

I am not the reflection you once loved,

But shards scattered at your feet,

Waiting to be swept away,

Or perhaps, pieced back together

Though I’ll never be the same.”

He finishes, and for a moment, no one moves. No one breathes. The words linger in the air, suspended like fragile glass themselves, shimmering with the weight of everything he just said. The room is still, the energy palpable, and it’s as if we’re all afraid that even the slightest sound will break the spell.

I am completely captivated. It’s not just the words—though they are beautifully, hauntingly true— but it’s the way he delivers them, like each line is being carefully placed into the air, delicate and intentional. He speaks of fragility, of being shattered by love, and there’s something almost painfully honest in his voice, as if he knows these cracks all too well.

The room stays silent for a beat longer, and then the applause starts, soft at first then growing louder. But even as we clap, I can feel the room’s hesitance to let go of the moment, to release what we’ve all just experienced.

He steps back, offering a faint smile as he returns to his seat beside the beautiful dark haired woman I can’t stop looking back to, the spell broken but the electricity still buzzing in the air.