6. Sasha

6

SASHA

I knew I was coming back tonight. The moment I left on Wednesday, I knew. The pull is undeniable. It isn’t just about the poetry or the cozy warmth of the bookstore that has already started to feel familiar. There is something deeper, something that has been building since I first stepped foot in this place. Part of me wants to chalk it up to the energy of the city—the way New Orleans has a habit of weaving itself into your skin and pulling you into its rhythm. But I know it’s more than that.

It is her.

I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since Wednesday. I try to convince myself otherwise, try to pretend that the draw I feel is nothing more than a fleeting curiosity. But that isn’t true. It isn’t just curiosity; it is something more intense, something electric that sparks the moment I see her behind the counter, and it lingers in the back of my mind like a melody I can’t shake.

I don’t know what to make of it, don’t even know what I want from it. I came to New Orleans to find something new, to rewrite my story, but I hadn’t been looking for this. I hadn’t been looking for her. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that the pull is there, undeniable and insistent, tugging at me with each passing thought. Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous tonight—because I know that if I step up to that microphone, if I bare my soul in front of this crowd, she will be there, watching, listening, seeing a piece of me I haven’t shared with anyone in a long time.

That scares me. But it also excites me.

When I arrive, the bookstore is already filling up, the low hum of conversation bouncing off the walls.

It is the same as before yet different. The energy is more intense tonight, buzzing with anticipation as people find their seats and prepare for the night ahead. I take a spot near the front, sliding into a chair with my notebook held close to my chest. My heart is already racing, but it isn’t just because of the crowd. It’s because of her.

I glance around, scanning the room, and there she is—the owner, standing near the back, her eyes moving over the crowd like she was taking everything in. I watch her for a moment, trying to steady the fluttering in my chest. She looks different tonight, more relaxed maybe, but there is still that quiet intensity about her. She moves through the space like she belongs there, like she is an extension of the bookstore itself—rooted, solid, but with a warmth that makes you want to get closer.

Her gaze shifts, and for a split second, our eyes meet. My breath catches in my throat, and I quickly look away, pretending to focus on my notebook. But the connection is there, even if it is brief. It feels like a jolt, like electricity sparking between us across the room. I’m not sure if she feels it, too, or if I’m just imagining things, but the weight of that moment stays with me, lingering in the space between us.

I had told myself that I was here tonight for the poetry, that this was just another chance to immerse myself in the words and energy of the event. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the full truth. I am here because of her. I wanted to see her again, to feel that connection again, to find out if it is something real or just a figment of my imagination.

As the poets begin to read, I try to focus, to let their words wash over me, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I keep stealing glances in her direction, watching the way she moves, the way her eyes follow the poets on stage, the way she smiles softly at the ones she knows. There is something magnetic about her, something that draws me in even when I try to resist it. And maybe that is part of the problem—I don’t want to resist it.

I’ve been running for so long—running from my past, from my mistakes, from the vulnerability that comes with opening myself up to someone new. I have built my walls carefully, methodically, keeping people at a distance so that I don’t get hurt again. But now, sitting here in this bookstore, I can feel those walls starting to crack. It isn’t just the poetry; it’s her. She is the one chipping away at my defenses, and the scariest part is that I’m not sure I want her to stop.

I don't know much about her. I don’t know what her story is, what her past holds, or what she wants out of life. But that doesn’t seem to matter. What matters is that every time our eyes meet, every time she smiles in my direction, I feel a spark of something new, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

And it terrifies me.

But it also makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in years.

The night wears on, and with each passing poem, I can feel the tension inside me building. My notebook sits unopened in my lap, my fingers tracing the edges of the pages as I debate whether or not to read tonight. I had come here with the intention of performing, sharing the poem I had written. But now, sitting here with her just a few feet away, the idea of exposing that part of myself feels overwhelming.

Still, something keeps pushing me forward. Maybe it’s the poem I have written—the one about walls and fragility, about how love can break us but also make us whole again. Maybe it’s the fact that I have been hiding behind those walls for too long, and I am tired of running. Or maybe it’s her, sitting there in the back of the room, watching me with those quiet, intense dark brown eyes, silently urging me to take the leap.

Whatever it is, I can’t ignore it any longer.

The poet before me finishes their poems, and the emcee steps up to the microphone, ready to call the next name. My heart pounds in my chest, and I can feel the blood rushing in my ears, but I don’t hesitate. I stand up before she can call a different name.

“I’d like to read something,” I say, my voice stronger than I expected.

All eyes turn toward me, and for a moment, I feel the weight of the room pressing down on me. But then I glance back at her, and our eyes meet once again. This time, I don’t look away. I hold her gaze, feeling that same electric pull between us. In that moment, everything else fades away—the nerves, the fear, the doubt. All that matters is the connection between us and the poem I am about to share.

She nods permission to me.

I step up to the microphone, my notebook clutched tightly in my hands. The lights are bright and the room is silent, but I feel a strange sense of calm wash over me. I had started this poem weeks ago, before I ever set foot in this bookstore. But now, as I stand there, ready to read it aloud, it feels like these words are meant for this moment.

“This poem is called ‘We Build Our Walls,’” I say, my voice steady but soft. “It’s about the way we protect ourselves and how love can both break us and rebuild us at the same time.”

I take a deep breath and begin.

"We build our walls with fragile care,

Thin as glass, they’re always there.

A single look, a fleeting glance,

Can break them down with just a chance.

I saw you once, you caught my eye,

And something in me wondered why.

A crack appeared, but not from pain ? —

A chance to build it all again.

We write ourselves in love’s soft light,

In moments brief, yet burning bright.

And though we shatter, though we fall,

We rise again, and that’s worth it all."

As I speak, the words feel different than when I had written them—fuller, more alive. I’m not just speaking them into the air; I’m speaking them into the space between me and her, letting her hear the truth of what I have been holding inside.

When I finish, the room is still for a moment, as if everyone is taking a collective breath. And then, the applause comes. Soft at first, then louder, filling the room with warmth and acceptance. I step back from the microphone, my heart still racing, but the sense of relief that washes over me is undeniable.

I glance back at her as I make my way back to my seat. She is clapping, too, her eyes meeting mine with that same quiet intensity. But there is something different now—a softness, an understanding that hasn’t been there before. And in that moment, I know that coming back tonight has been the right choice. I have let the walls come down just a little, and it feels like the first step toward something new. Something that can grow into whatever comes next.

As the night continues, I feel lighter, freer. I don’t know what is going to happen between me and her, whether this connection is something real or just a passing spark. But for now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have taken the first step. I let myself be seen, and it is enough.

The rest, whatever it is, will come when it is ready.

The crowd starts to thin out, and the energy in the bookstore has shifted to that soft hum that always comes after a night of poetry. People linger in small groups, their conversations low but buzzing with the excitement of what they’d just experienced. I’m still riding the high of having read my poem, feeling lighter, like I’ve left something behind on that stage.

But now, with the night winding down, my thoughts aren’t on poetry anymore. They are on her. I have been stealing glances at her all evening, feeling that quiet tension that had started between us on Wednesday, and now, with the crowd thinning, it feels like there is finally space for something more to happen.

She is still behind the counter, tidying up and exchanging smiles with the regulars. I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, a nervous energy building as I wonder if I had the guts to talk to her. Part of me wants to walk out, to leave it as it is—a fleeting connection that will live in the charged air between us and never be explored. But something else, something stronger, pulls me toward her.

I don’t overthink it. Before I know what I’m doing, I walk up to the counter, my feet moving before my mind can catch up. I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach as I get closer, but I push through it.

When she looks up and sees me standing there, her eyes brighten. I can see the recognition, that same intensity flickering in her gaze, and for a moment, it feels like the whole room has disappeared, like it is just the two of us.

“Hey,” I say, my voice a little quieter than I intended. “I just wanted to say thank you. For the space, I mean. For the chance to read. It meant a lot.”

Her smile widens, and it’s warm, genuine. “I’m glad you did. Your poem, it was beautiful. It really resonated with me.”

I feel a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. Compliments on my poetry always hit me differently than anything else; they felt personal, like someone was seeing a part of me I didn’t often reveal. But coming from her, it feels even more intense.

“Thank you,” I reply, not quite sure what else to say, but not wanting the conversation to end. “I’ve been writing for a while, but it’s rare that I get the chance—well, the courage—to share. This place feels special.”

She nods, her eyes softening. “That’s what I hope for. My grandmother always believed that words had the power to connect people, to heal, even. I’ve tried to keep that spirit alive here. I am Evie. Evie Rousseau.”

I lean against the counter, feeling the conversation start to flow more easily. “Sasha Bennett.” I offer my name, gifting it to her, as she did to me. “It definitely feels like that. This city has a way of drawing people in, doesn’t it? Like it’s full of ghosts and stories that are just waiting to be heard.”

She smiles again, this time with a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Yeah, something like that.”

The conversation keeps going, and we talk about poetry, about the bookstore, about writing and words. We’re chatting like old friends, the back-and-forth coming so naturally, that I barely notice the time passing. Every now and then, someone approaches the counter, looking for help or to make a purchase, but Evie barely notices. She glances over at them and offers a quick smile, but her attention keeps returning to me, her eyes locked on mine as we talk about everything and nothing all at once.

At one point, I hear a soft cough, followed by a subtle throat clearing. It snaps us both out of our conversation, and I turn to see a small line of people waiting at the counter, looking a little impatient.

“Oh.” Evie’s eyes widen as she realizes how long we’ve been talking. “I’m so sorry,” she says quickly to the customers, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red as she steps away to help them.

I can feel my own face heating up, a mix of embarrassment and amusement washing over me. We have been so engrossed in each other that we haven’t even noticed the world moving on around us.

I linger near the counter for a moment, waiting for her to finish with the customers, trying to decide if I should leave now or stick around. Part of me doesn’t want the night to end, doesn’t want to walk away from whatever this is that has started between us.

When she finishes helping the last person, Evie turns back to me, still looking a little flustered but smiling. “Sorry about that,” she says, laughing softly. “I guess we got a little carried away.”

“No need to apologize,” I say, smiling back. “It was nice talking with you. Really nice.”

There’s a beat of silence, a pause in the air between us, and I can feel the question forming in my mind before I even realize what I am going to say.

“Would you…” I hesitate, suddenly nervous again, but I push through it. “Would you like to continue this conversation? Maybe over coffee tomorrow?”

Evie’s smile softens, and for a second, I think I see something flicker in her eyes—something that makes my heart skip a beat.

“I’d like that,” she says, her voice soft but certain. “There’s a cafe just around the corner. How about noon?”

“Noon sounds perfect,” I reply, feeling that flutter in my chest again, but this time it’s mixed with excitement.

We exchange a few more words—small details about where to meet—and then, with one last smile, I make my way to the door. As I step out into the warm night air, I felt lighter, like something inside me has shifted, cracked open in a way that I wasn’t expecting.