Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maya. 

Bellamy's Books didn't have a website. It didn't advertise. If you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't even know it was there, it was tucked between an empty florist shop and a watch repair store that hadn't changed its display window in a decade. But the regulars, the true ones, they always came back.

The place smelled like paper and cedar and time. Dust clung to the corners of the tall-paned windows, and the golden wood floors creaked politely beneath every footstep. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls like cathedral pillars, each one packed to bursting. There were freestanding stacks too, crowding the narrow aisles, forming a labyrinth of genres. Romance, thriller, adventure, history. A table of French paperbacks. A shelf of Italian classics. A quiet nook of Spanish poetry. The store held a world far bigger than Maya Bishop could ever fit in her one-bedroom apartment.

At the front near the register stood the New Arrivals section, though "new" here didn't mean recently published. Most were secondhand, books that had been gently loved, rehomed. Some bore dog-eared pages and faded covers, others pristine but carrying the quiet weight of stories passed from hand to hand.

Maya knew those hands. She had imagined them for years.

Bellamy's had been her refuge for the better part of a decade. Ever since she'd aged out of her father's house at 18 years old and into the silence of living alone. She'd come here on rainy weekends, slow weekdays, lunch breaks, holidays or whenever she could steal a sliver of peace. In her apartment, she had one tall bookshelf she'd bought secondhand and stained herself, positioned next to the window seat she had built in her living room. Twenty books sat on it, each one special, all original editions she'd saved for, collected, and ranked in quiet, obsessive order.

But this place, this place held everything else.

Here she could read what she didn't dare keep at home growing up. Books her father would have ripped to pieces just to remind her that love was a fragile, tearable thing. At Bellamy's, she had explored whole continents, found love and loss and everything in between. She belonged here, even if no one in the shop ever said so out loud. Here, she found the books she would save for, the ones worth keeping a copy for herself. Something she wouldn't share with every other reader there. One for each year of reading she had missed out on, one that represented her at different points in life.

Today was like any other, with the soft clatter of rain against the glass and the shopkeeper nodding in his usual way, a silent greeting that asked for nothing in return. Maya returned it with a small lift of her brows and made her way toward the back, to her usual seat: the window bench tucked behind the nonfiction stacks, where light filtered through ivy-slicked glass and pooled onto the cushions like a private spotlight.

She held a coffee in one hand, already lukewarm. Her free hand reached, without hesitation, for the same book she had been coming back to for weeks: Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

She didn't own it. She didn't want to, not this copy anyway. Owning it would mean taking it away from this place, from the moment and magic it held here. And from the note.

The first time she'd found it, four weeks ago, on a day not unlike this one, she had been curled up in the same seat, legs tucked under her, coffee balanced on the windowsill, the Seattle sky heavy with grey. She'd been flipping through the opening chapter when she saw it.

A single sentence written in pencil in the margin of a paragraph about stillness and presence.

-Some days, the stillness feels like comfort. Other days, it feels like being forgotten. I wonder which it is for you.-

The handwriting had stopped her cold.

It was neat, slightly slanted, feminine, as if written slowly and with care. Not rushed or casual. It wasn't graffiti or idle scrawl, it was intentional but private. A quiet thought left like a breadcrumbs.

Maya had stared at it for what felt like hours. The note nestled between the printed lines like it belonged there. It didn't shout, it whispered, an for reasons she hadn't dared examine too closely, she came back the next day, and the next. 

Every time, she returned to the same copy of the book, pulled from the same shelf, as if it might change when she wasn't looking. But there were no other notes, no second messages. Just the one.

Maya had searched, of course. She'd subtly begun scanning the margins of every nonfiction spine in the philosophy section, a few romance novels, a memoir or two. But there were thousands of books here, it would take years. She knew how ridiculous it was.

But it's not like she didn't have time.

Her job at a small accounting firm paid the bills. That was all. It wasn't her passion and It never had been. She'd wanted to study English literature in college, wanted it with a fire she'd buried deep enough to survive her father's rules. But business and finance were practical and safe. He made her choose safety. And even now, free from him, she couldn't quite untangle herself from the fear that doing what she loved could make it all fall apart.

So she lived modestly, kept to herself, and read books like they were oxygen.

But she had decided that today was the day.

She turned the page back to where the original note had been left and read it again. It hit her the same way it had the first time. Stillness. Comfort. Forgetting.

Today, her pencil was ready.

She wrote directly beneath it.

-Most days, I think it's both. Comfort and loneliness, like twin shadows. But reading your words makes it easier to sit with the quiet.-

She stared at the page for a long time.

And then, carefully, she took the envelope from her bag.

Maya had written the letter the night before, curled up in the corner of her apartment. The words on the page, simple but open

-To the one who's written in the margins, if you're still reading, write back. I'll be here.-

The envelope she placed it in was left unsealed, its flap gently tucked but not pressed closed, an offering, not a demand. She left the front blank, no name, no direction, just the hope that it would find the right hands.

Hoping the next time the writer came, they'd find it.

Or maybe they wouldn't.

But Maya would still return. Because even if the world outside forgot her, even if the coffee cooled and the apartment stayed quiet and she never enrolled in that night class she kept googling but never applied for, this, this was something.

A whisper across pages. A voice in the margin. A kind of hope that didn't ask too much, only that she come back and read.

Chapter Text

Carina.

Seattle had a way of pressing in. The air was always thick with damp and the city hummed at a frequency Carina wasn't yet fluent in, it was quieter than Milan, but heavier somehow. More brooding. Like it knew your secrets and wasn't afraid to sit with them.

She pulled the hood of her coat tighter as the rain misted against her cheeks, boots splashing through shallow puddles. It had been a long shift in the lab, eleven long hours spent at the bench, pipetting solutions, running protein assays, logging data. It was precise work, meticulous. Sometimes she loved the way things either worked or didn't, no grey area, just reaction and result. But other days, like today, she missed the human noise. She missed home.

Carina had left Italy almost six months ago to join a research team in Seattle working on neurodegenerative disease. It was prestigious, funded, full of brilliant people. She was proud of what she did. She reminded herself of that often.

But no one had told her how lonely excellence could feel.

Her apartment, if it could even be called that, was a shared space provided through the institute: four scientists, four bedrooms, one kitchen. Functional and clean but not home. She had her own room at least, though it was barely bigger than the narrow bed it held. She'd brought a few personal in her suitcase, her mother's rings, a photo album filled with family photos of her and her brother on a beach, of her parents, grandparents and extended family, birthdays, anniversaries and other holidays. But space was limited, and most of what she truly loved had stayed behind.

That was how she'd found Bellamy's Books. By accident. A soft-lit cave of words tucked between a shuttered florist and an old watch shop. The first time she'd stepped inside, the scent of coffee and dust and worn pages had wrapped around her like a memory.

Now she came here most nights after work.

The bell above the door chimed softly as she entered, the warmth of the shop instantly thawing her fingers. She offered a small smile to the shopkeeper, who wordlessly reached for her usual: cappuccino, extra foam, no sugar.

The store was the same as always, comforting in its consistency. The towering bookshelves loomed with quiet dignity, floor to ceiling, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. Smaller displays at the front were filled with newly acquired titles, some recent releases, others worn paperbacks waiting for their next reader.

Bellamy's was a place that held other people's lives. And for now, that was enough.

She weaved past the memoirs and through the language section, pausing briefly to run her fingers along the spines of a few Italian titles. They always made her chest ache, words that felt like home but didn't reach far enough to bridge the distance between where she was now and where she used to be.

Carina's seat was waiting for her. A oversized corner chair near the back window, half-hidden by a leaning display of old travelogues. The light was dim, but her eyes had adjusted to this place, and her fingers knew the exact space on the shelf to reach for the book.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

She had first pulled it down two months ago, unfamiliar with the author but drawn by the quiet poetry of the title. The writing had surprised her, it was so observant, so reverent toward the world's small details. It mirrored how she sometimes felt in the lab, bent over her microscope, watching the way cells danced and dissolved and came back together again.

That first week, she hadn't even meant to leave a note. The margin beside a particular passage had simply been empty, and her heart had been so full. So she had written:

-Some days, the stillness feels like comfort. Other days, it feels like being forgotten. I wonder which it is for you.-

Then she had left it. And told herself not to expect anything.

She never imagined someone would write back.

But as she pulled the book from the shelf tonight, an envelope fluttered free, catching on the edge of the neighboring spine before drifting to the floor. Her breath caught.

She knelt to pick it up, hoping it was for her. It had to be. She opened it with trembling hands, not that it was sealed. It was open, the flap tucked loosely, like an invitation. Her eyes scanned the page, the handwriting delicate, precise.

-To the one who writes in the margins, if you're still reading, write back. I'll be here.-

Her heart stuttered.

She flipped to the first chapter, hands trembling slightly, and found her own sentence again. But beneath it now, pencil faint but deliberate, there was a new line.

-Most days, I think it's both. Comfort and loneliness, like twin shadows. But reading your words makes it easier to sit with the quiet.-

She sat down slowly, letting the words settle around her. The cappuccino appeared on the low table beside her, unnoticed for the moment. Her chest ached in the way it did when something vulnerable found an answer.

Someone had read her. Not just her words, but something deeper. Someone had heard the ache under her careful pencil marks.

The café was quiet, just the hum of the espresso machine and the tap-tap of laptop keys from a student nearby. But for Carina, it felt like something louder had shifted.

She didn't know who the person was. She hadn't thought to imagine them until now. But now she couldn't stop. Were they younger? Older? Another lonely reader finding sanctuary between the stacks?

She turned to chapter two and began to read, slower this time, her pencil in hand.

Near a line that spoke about the fierce attentiveness required to see the world as it truly is, she wrote:

-I think noticing is the first language I ever spoke. Before I found the words, I found details. I wonder if that's true for you too.-

And later, when the author described the ache of wanting to hold everything at once:

-I left so many things behind. Some days I think I'm still holding them, even from a distance.-

Carina exhaled slowly, the tension she carried in her shoulders all day starting to ease. She looked at the letter again, ran her fingers over the edge of the paper, and felt the smallest sense of belonging bloom in her chest.

She hesitated only briefly before rising from her seat and slipping her coat back on. Across the street, in a small convenience store she'd barely noticed before, she found a simple stationery set, it was purple with tiny floral corners and lined pages that reminded her of school notes and childhood secrets. She brought it back with her, tucking the receipt in her pocket, fingers already itching to write.

Back at the café, the book still lay open on the table, waiting. She sat, uncapped her pen, and began to write on the first page of the new stationery.

I'm still here.

Thank you for your words, for not brushing mine aside. I didn't expect anyone to read them, let alone understand them. But you did. And it made something quiet inside me feel less heavy.

If you're still reading too, go ahead to chapter 3. Leave your thoughts, and I'll follow where you lead.-

She hesitated for only a moment, then tucked the envelope inside the front cover of the book where it wouldn't fall again. A promise, folded quietly.

The idea that someone would open the book tomorrow or the day after and find her reply made her feel less invisible. Like she wasn't just moving through the world but connecting to someone else who was doing the same.

Carina gathered her things slowly, reluctant to leave but not before tucking the first envelope safely inside her purse. The sky outside was a deeper shade of grey now, but the weight in her chest had softened. As she stepped back into the rain, her thoughts weren't in the lab, or the apartment, or the loneliness she couldn't always name.

They were with the reader who had written back. And the space they now shared, in pencil and paper and possibility.

Chapter Text

Maya. 

She waited a week. Seven long, grey-skied days passed before she stepped through the door of Bellamy's Books again, unsure of the other reader's rhythm or their schedule, their habits, the tides that pulled them toward or away from this strange conversation unfolding in the margins. Maya wasn't even sure what she'd hoped for, only that the ache of wondering had followed her all week like a shadow.

She'd thought about the letter she left, her handwritten, quietly folded, tucked gently against the cover of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek like a breath held in paper form. It had felt like an ask, a risk. Like setting something fragile down and walking away.

But after four weeks of circling the same few pages, of reading and rereading the first annotated line

-Some days, the stillness feels like comfort. Other days, it feels like being forgotten-

Maya had needed to know if this connection was real. If this stranger who had seen her words might see her, too.

The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, the scent of warm paper and espresso curling around her like a familiar coat. It was quieter than usual. Low jazz spun from unseen speakers, and the quiet clink of ceramic sounded from a couple seated by the fireplace.

Maya's heart kicked up in her chest.

She didn't go to the book right away.

Instead, she wandered slowly, fingers trailing over the spines of books she wasn't really seeing. The tension in her chest was slow-building and quiet, the kind that hummed beneath the ribs like a question you couldn't quite say aloud.

This time, she didn't bring in her usual lukewarm bodega coffee. Today, she had stood at the café counter, grounding herself in the small ritual of it.

"Hot chocolate, please. Extra marshmallows," she'd said, trying to give herself something soft to hold, something warm to counter the nerves buzzing in her fingertips.

Finally, she drifted toward the travel section. The crooked sign above leaned like always, one letter nearly falling off. Her fingers found the book spine without hesitation.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

She pulled it free. And there it was. A new envelope.

Purple. Floral. Unsealed.

Not her stationery. Not her own handwriting. This was theirs, the mysterious writer's. The envelope was blank on the front, the flap gently tucked closed but not sealed, like a door left slightly ajar.

Maya's hands trembled as she made her way to her seat by the window.

The hot chocolate warmed her palms, untouched, the marshmallows melting into a soft swirl she barely noticed. She opened the envelope with quiet reverence.

The handwriting was familiar now, almost comfortingly looped and fluid.

-I'm still here.-

It started with that. So simple. So sure. Like a hand reaching out in the dark and not letting go.

-Thank you for your words, for not brushing mine aside. I didn't expect anyone to read them, let alone understand them. But you did. And it made something quiet inside me feel less heavy.-

And then came the invitation that both thrilled and terrified her:

-If you're still reading too, go ahead to chapter 3. Leave your thoughts, and I'll follow where you lead.-

Signed only, with a single initial: C.

Maya smiled, unsteady but real. Then panic prickled at the edges of her calm. What if she didn't have anything to say? What if her words failed her now?

What if this thread that was so gently spun between them started to unraveled because she had nothing worthy to offer?

She clutched the book and the letter, her breath a little uneven, and flipped back to chapter two. Just in case.

There were more notes now. Pencil faint, but deliberate. Her companion had responded.

Near a paragraph about attention and seeing the world clearly, she had written:

-I think noticing is the first language I ever spoke. Before I found the words, I found details. I wonder if that's true for you too.-

Maya paused. Her thumb brushed the page.

She had always been like that. Hyperaware. Quietly alert. Noticing tension, noticing silence, noticing when people looked but didn't see. Growing up, it had been survival. Now it was instinct. A skill, yes but also a wound.

She picked up her pencil and added, steady and soft:

-Yes. Details kept me safe. They still do. The world makes more sense in pieces than all at once.-

Later, near a line about longing and distance, she found another note:

-I left so many things behind. Some days I think I'm still holding them, even from a distance.-

Maya swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

God, yes.

She'd left so much behind. Left places, people, pieces of herself. But the ache never stayed behind, it came with her. Always. Like a ghost stitched into her bones.

She wrote slowly:

-I think part of me still lives in a place I escaped from. Like escapring didn't finish the leaving.-

She sat back, her hand resting on the page, the café blurring around her. For the first time in a long time, something inside her steadied.

This, the exchange of words written in the margins, it was something worth returning to.

She turned to Chapter 3. Here there were no notes waiting for her. A blank slate. An invitation.

Maya read the chapter once. Then again.

Three lines stayed with her. They clung to her like breath, quiet, precise.

The first:
"The mountains are reflections of what we long to name but can't."

That one lodged in her chest.

She'd spent her whole life putting names to things for other people, labelling feelings, calibrating tone, marketing emotions. But her own? Her own longings stayed unnamed, unclaimed. As if keeping them vague made them safer.

She circled the line and wrote in the margin:

-Sometimes I think I've spent my whole life naming things for other people and leaving myself unnamed.-

The second line:
"The world is not just described by language but it is created by it."

Maya hesitated, her pencil still. Then, quietly:

-Maybe that's what we're doing. Creating something here.-

The final one was about being seen:
"It is astonishing how many people pass over things they don't expect to see."

That one cut sharper.

She had learned how to go unnoticed. She had relied on it. Blending in. Being useful. Being just charming enough, just composed enough. But something about C's reply last week had changed that. Had stirred something deeper, a need to be seen without asking for it.

She drew a small box around the line and added:

-I am good at going unnoticed. But I'm starting to hope I don't have to be invisible anymore.-

When the chapter was finished, she closed the book for a moment and reached into her bag for her own notepaper.

She chose her words carefully, the way she always did when something mattered.

Dear C,

You have no idea how much it meant to find your letter.

I wasn't sure you'd come back. I told myself I wouldn't expect it but I did. I hoped. I waited. Every day this week, I thought about the envelope I had left. About your words. And I wondered if this thing, whatever it might be, whatever we're doing in the margins might mean something to you, too.

The quotes I left today... they aren't the most obvious. But they're the ones that stayed with me. The ones that hit the places I don't always let people see.

If they resonate for you, if you find yourself there too, then I'll know this isn't just me writing into the dark. Know that I see you.

I'll be here.

-M

She folded the letter carefully and placed it in an envelope, this time, addressed to C. Just plain paper, gently tucked and left unsealed, the way C had done.

Then she slid it into the book's front cover, letting her fingers rest there for just a moment longer than necessary, as if pressing meaning into the pages.

Then she rose, placed the book back on the shelf, and walked out into the soft mist of the Seattle evening, the weight in her chest finally a little lighter.

The soft hush of the door closing behind her felt final in a way she hadn't expected, like setting down a thought you weren't ready to stop thinking. Maya tucked her coat closer around her body and stepped out into the evening air, damp and heavy with the scent of rain clinging to the sidewalks. Seattle moved around her, blurred headlights and the distant hiss of tires against wet pavement. But she didn't rush.

Her steps were slow, her hands deep in her pockets, her mind far from the rhythm of the city.

Who are you, C?

The question had been humming under her skin since she left the envelope behind, since she slid it into the book like a whispered reply.

The handwriting had been almost feminine with gentle curves and looping letters but Maya didn't want to presume. It was easy to attach an image to a feeling, to make assumptions about someone based on how their words made you feel. But this was different. This was real, even if it had no face yet.

Was C a woman? That seemed like the obvious assumption, but she caught herself before settling too comfortably in that thought. Maybe they weren't. Maybe they were neither, or both. Maybe the softness in their script came from quiet strength, not gender. Maybe it didn't matter.

Still, her mind wandered.

Could it be Courtney? She'd met a Courtney once, she was bookish, thoughtful, with a slow smile and sharp eyes. Or Callum, with that quiet barista energy, the kind who noticed when you needed an extra sugar packet without asking. Cody? Camilla?

Maybe it wasn't their first name at all.

Maybe it was a last name. Or a nickname. Or something else entirely, something she wouldn't understand until they told her themselves.

And what did C look like?

That part was harder to imagine.

Were they tall, with long limbs and shy glances, or compact and expressive, the kind of person who talked with their hands and eyes at once? Dark hair that fell over their forehead in waves? Or red curls, wild and free? Blonde and sunlit like a storybook character, or something in between, some shade Maya hadn't dreamed up yet?

Were they older than her? Wiser, a little more weathered by the world?

Or younger, with fire still tucked behind their ribcage, unafraid to speak into silence?

She didn't know. She didn't know any of it.

But she wanted to.

God, she wanted to.
Not just the name or the face but the sound of their laugh. The shape of their thoughts when they weren't pressed between margins. The rhythm of how they walked, what made them pause mid-sentence, how they took their coffee, what they read when no one else was watching.

Maya turned onto her street, passing the little bakery that closed too early and the tree that had started blooming too late. Her building stood ahead, warm light spilling from its windows.

She paused before heading up the steps.

No, she didn't have the answers yet. She didn't know who C was, or what this strange, delicate thing between them might become.

But maybe one day, she would.

And until then?

She'd keep reading.
Keep writing.
Keep leaving pieces of herself in the margins.

Just in case someone was reading them, too.

Chapter Text

Carina.

The numbers on the screen blurred for the third time that morning, the spreadsheet mocking her with its silent precision. Carina blinked hard and tried again, eyes tracking protein assay results she could have recited in her sleep just a week ago. The pipette in her hand trembled slightly with her grip, too tight. Everything today felt like it required too much effort.

She exhaled and set it down.

Three days.

It had been three days since she'd slipped the floral envelope into the book at Bellamy's, tucked gently where the last letter had once been. Three days of checking, rechecking, of pushing open the worn wooden door with the same quiet hope she wasn't yet ready to name.

And each time, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek was still there, still undisturbed. Her envelope still nestled behind the cover. Blank on the front. Unopened. Maybe they'd decided not to write back.

The thought kept circling like a fog she couldn't shake. Rationally, she knew three days wasn't a long time. People had lives. Schedules. Maybe they hadn't been back yet. Maybe they were away. Maybe they'd read the letter and didn't know how to respond. Or didn't want to. But still, it stung.

She'd spent nearly half a year holding herself apart from people, devoting everything she had to her work and the small, controlled rituals that kept her upright. But this thing, this connection had slipped past her usual defenses. And now she wasn't sure what to do with the silence it left behind.

"Carina."

The voice jolted her. She looked up to see Jo leaning in the lab doorway, eyebrow raised and arms crossed over her navy scrubs.

"You just pipetted the same well. Twice."

Carina frowned and glanced down at the plate. She had. "Merda."

Jo crossed the room and gently took the tray from her hands. "Alright, what's going on? You've been spacey for days. You didn't even yell at the postdoc who microwaved fish in the break room."

"It's nothing," Carina said quickly, too quickly. She tried to smile but knew it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm just... tired."

Jo wasn't buying it.

"You've been tired since Monday. And you've had three hot chocolates this week, which you only drink when you're brooding or nostalgic."

Carina huffed out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "You're very observant."

"Comes with living in a fishbowl apartment with you." Jo nudged her shoulder lightly. "Talk to me."

But Carina shook her head, gentle and firm. "It's... nothing I can explain yet. Nothing solid."

Jo gave her a look of half-concern, half-understanding but decided not to push. "Okay. But if it becomes something, you know where to find me. And maybe don't ruin your assay again, yeah?"

Carina nodded and returned to her seat once Jo left, but her fingers didn't return to the pipette.

Instead, they curled around the soft edge of her lab notebook as her mind drifted again, to the worn travel section of Bellamy's. To the book with the quiet cover and the silence tucked inside it. To the envelope that hadn't moved. To the words she hadn't had the courage to re-read since writing them.

"I'm still here," she'd said. But maybe the other person wasn't.

And yet, each night she found herself there again. Wrapped in her coat, fingers tucked into her sleeves, walking past the shuttered florist and into the soft-lit shop that now felt more like hers than her apartment ever had. She didn't even pretend to browse anymore. Just made a beeline for the travel section, for the book.

Three days.
Three visits.
Three disappointments.

But tonight, she would go again. Because maybe, just maybe, today would be different.

Carina practically sprinted down the corridor, tugging her coat on over her scrubs and ignoring Jo's "Hey, where's the fire?" as she pushed open the double doors and stepped into the sharp, cool air of early evening. For once, the Seattle sky wasn't threatening rain. The pavement was dry beneath her boots, and that alone felt like a small mercy.

She didn't stop to think, she didn't stop at the corner store, didn't check her phone, didn't pause for coffee. Her legs carried her on instinct now, following the familiar path like a thread pulled tight through her chest.

By the time she reached Bellamy's, her pulse was loud in her ears. She barely noticed the bell over the door or the warmth of the shop curling around her shoulders like a familiar sweater. For once, she didn't offer the shopkeeper a smile or a nod. Her eyes were locked on the travel section, and she walked with purpose straight to the spine her hands already knew by heart.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

She reached out, half-dreading what she might find inside, if she would find her envelope still sitting untouched, her heartache sealed inside it.

But it was gone. And in its place, there was a new envelope.

Soft cream paper. Blank except for a single handwritten letter:

C

Her breath caught in her throat.

She stared at it for a moment, unmoving. Something in her chest fluttered, sharp and disbelieving. They'd written back.

Carina clutched the book to her chest, retreating to her usual seat, the overstuffed chair in the far corner, half-shadowed and facing the rain-streaked window. She sank into it like a diver exhaling underwater, her knees tucked beneath her, the envelope resting gently in her lap.

Did they keep hers? she wondered. The blue-lined paper, the messy loops of her script. Did they read them at night the way she read theirs, over and over, until the words felt like someone whispering just for her?

Her fingers slid under the flap and opened the envelope carefully, reverently.

The letter was folded once, neatly.

She unfolded it and began to read.

Dear C,

You have no idea how much it meant to find your letter.

I wasn't sure you'd come back. I told myself I wouldn't expect it but I did. I hoped. I waited. Every day this week, I thought about the envelope I had left. About your words. And I wondered if this thing, whatever it might be, whatever we're doing in the margins might mean something to you, too.

Carina paused, her throat tightening. They had waited for her. They had hoped. That small, aching confession broke something open in her, a loneliness she hadn't even named suddenly soothed by someone else's shared uncertainty. It did mean something to her. And now she knew it meant something to them, too.

The quotes I left today... they aren't the most obvious. But they're the ones that stayed with me. The ones that hit the places I don't always let people see.

If they resonate for you, if you find yourself there too, then I'll know this isn't just me writing into the dark. Know that I see you.

I'll be here.

-M

Carina read the letter again, slower this time, letting the words settle, threading into her skin.

The ones that hit the places I don't always let people see.

That line echoed inside her. She understood it too well, how certain lines caught on your ribs like a breath you weren't ready to take. How writing them down could feel like peeling back your armor.

But M had done it anyway. And in doing so, they had seen her too.

She closed her eyes for a moment, her fingers curled gently around the edge of the letter. Her chest ached in the quiet way it did when something beautiful found you when you needed it most.

"I see you too," she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

And she meant it.

Before she turned the page to chapter three, Carina paused.

The letter still rested in her lap, but something tugged at her, an urge to revisit what had come before. She flipped back through the earlier pages, her fingers brushing the corners delicately, as if the paper might bruise under too much pressure.

Her eyes caught the familiar passage first, the one she remembered underlining in delicate pencil strokes, the one she had lingered over the night she wrote her last letter. And there, nestled beneath her handwriting, was something new.

She had written:

I think noticing is the first language I ever spoke. Before I found the words, I found details. I wonder if that's true for you too.

Underneath, in smaller script, was faint but unmistakably different, reply.

Yes. Details kept me safe. They still do. The world makes more sense in pieces than all at once.

Carina's chest rose on a quiet inhale, the breath catching just slightly. Her eyes lingered on the words, letting them fold around her like warmth.

Details kept me safe. What kind of details? She found herself wondering. What had M needed to be safe from?

But she didn't respond. Not yet.

It was enough, for now, to know that someone understood. That M saw the world in fragments, in flickers of light and sound and silence just as she did. That shared understanding hummed beneath the ink, quiet and profound.

She turned the next few pages slowly, letting her eyes follow the familiar flow of the chapter until the second set of handwriting appeared.

Her own, first:

I left so many things behind. Some days I think I'm still holding them, even from a distance.

And then, a response:

I think part of me still lives in a place I escaped from. Like escaping didn't finish the leaving.

Carina's smile faded.

She read it again. And again.

There was something raw about it, something that pressed gently but insistently against a place she tried not to touch too often.

The word escape didn't feel like a metaphor. It felt literal. Like flight. Like running. Like survival.

She wondered, not for the first time, if M was okay. Really okay. If whoever they were, woman or man was safe now. Not just in the physical sense, but emotionally, too.

Carina's fingers hovered above the margin for a moment, then lowered.

She didn't write a reply. Not yet. But she would.

Tonight, she promised herself. She would write back. She would ask gently, carefully, if M was alright. And maybe, in doing so, she'd offer a little of her own truth too.

Carina adjusted herself in the oversized chair, tucking one leg beneath her as she gently turned to Chapter 3.

She didn't let her eyes wander to the edges of the page just yet. There were faint pencil markings in M's handwriting unmistakable now but Carina resisted the temptation to read them first. She wanted to take in the chapter fully, without influence, without expectation. To read it as M had, alone, before their thoughts intertwined.

The chapter unfolded like a quiet landscape, slow-moving but purposeful. It spoke of solitude and observation, of longing that lived beneath the skin rather than shouting from the rooftops. There were metaphors of nature and silence, of the tension between naming and knowing, seeing and truly understanding.

Carina read to the end, slowly, thoughtfully, allowing the cadence of the words to settle in her chest before she circled back to the margins.

This time, she let herself read them.

The first note came beside the line:
"The mountains are reflections of what we long to name but can't."

M's handwriting sloped slightly to the right, neat but not rehearsed.

-Sometimes I think I've spent my whole life naming things for other people and leaving myself unnamed.-

Carina's breath caught quietly in her throat. She let the weight of it sit with her, untouched. She didn't write anything in return. Not yet. Not to that.

Because how could she? How do you respond to something that intimate without first holding it gently?

Instead, she moved on.

The second line she found was one she remembered from her first read:

"The world is not just described by language, it is created by it."

And in the margin, M had written:

-Maybe that's what we're doing. Creating something here.-

Carina smiled softly, her pencil already in hand. This one felt easier, like a doorway had been opened.

She wrote simply beneath it:

-I hope we are too.-

It wasn't just sentiment, it was truth. Because something was forming, unfolding between them. Quiet and cautious, but real nonetheless.

The third margin note was near the end of the chapter.

The quote it referenced read:

"It is astonishing how many people pass over things they don't expect to see."

M's comment was almost too quiet to catch at first glance, tucked into the lower edge of the page:

-I am good at going unnoticed. But I'm starting to hope I don't have to be invisible anymore.-

Carina's reaction was instant, a sharp, quiet gasp that startled even her.

Invisible?

M wasn't invisible. If anything, they were the most vivid part of her days right now. They'd crept into the quiet spaces of her life between pages, between breaths and they stayed.

Carina pressed her pencil to the margin and, with a steady hand, wrote the only thing she could think of:

-I see you.-

She paused there, the weight of her response warming her chest in a way she hadn't expected.

But then, something pulled her back to the first margin note again, the one about naming things for other people and never herself. Carina hadn't responded the first time. Still wasn't sure how.

But just above it, a different quote caught her eye:

"What we are afraid to touch often touches us the deepest."

Carina tilted her head, considered the ache that came with reading it.

She lifted her pencil.

-Sometimes it's easier to hold space for others than admit we need someone to hold space for us.-

She exhaled slowly after writing it, and let her fingers rest against the book's spine.

There was something incredibly human, incredibly tender, about the vulnerability tucked between these pages.

Carina hesitated, fingertips brushing the edge of the page.

Chapter 4.

M hadn't written anything here. No circled quotes, no penciled reflections in the margin, no quiet breadcrumbs to follow. It was the first chapter that stood untouched since their exchange began.

Maybe M hadn't made it this far yet. Or maybe they were waiting for something. Maybe for her.

There was no invitation, no promise that M would return tomorrow, or ever. But Carina didn't want to leave the pages empty. Their connection had begun quietly, tentatively, but it had grown roots in the quiet corners of her mind. She wanted M to find something waiting. A sign that the thread between them still held.

So she turned the page.

She read Chapter 4 with more deliberation than the others, not just to understand the story, but to feel out where her voice might fit among the silence. The chapter spoke of memory and distance. Of what it means to remember something that no longer belongs to you, and the loneliness that comes with that.

Two lines held her there, longer than the rest.

The first came midway through the chapter:

"There are silences we carry like heirlooms, passed down, held close, never named."

Carina picked up her pencil and wrote carefully beneath it:

-I was raised in a family that talked constantly, but never about the things that mattered. We were loud, but not open. I think that's why I listen so closely now to the quiet between people, to the weight behind what isn't said. Silence was the first thing I learned to interpret, and maybe the hardest to unlearn.-

She paused, surprised by her own honesty. But it felt good. It felt right.

Later, near the end of the chapter, another line stopped her:

"Home is sometimes the place you had to leave so you could survive it."

She stared at it for a long while before writing, slower this time, letting the words come as they wanted.

-I left Italy for work, for opportunity. That's what I told people. But part of the truth is I needed distance, from the expectations, from the version of myself that only ever smiled and nodded and did what was asked. It wasn't one moment. It was a hundred little ones that made staying feel like shrinking. I love my country, my language, my family. But leaving gave me permission to choose myself.-

When she finished, she leaned back in the chair, staring at the two notes.

They weren't polished. They weren't poetic. But they were hers, more open, more vulnerable than she'd allowed herself to be in any of the previous chapters.

And she hoped, quietly, that M would return to read them. And maybe, just maybe, leave something behind in return.

Carina let the pencil rest between her fingers and leaned back, gaze drifting over the quiet shop. A couple read side‑by‑side near the fireplace; a grad student hunched over a laptop at the bar. Where did M usually sit? Maybe here, in this corner chair, or maybe tucked on the window bench with a latte growing cold. Did they come now just for these pages, or did they wander the shelves the way she once had, fingers grazing fiction, poetry, maybe a dusty volume of Neruda or a battered copy of Jane Eyre?

She wanted to know.

With a small breath, she opened her floral stationery set and smoothed a page against the arm of the chair. The words flowed without much planning, honest, a little rambling, but hers.

To M,

Thank you for every line you've shared and for trusting me with them. Your note felt like someone switched on a light I didn't realise I needed.

I hope you won't mind that I read on to Chapter 4. There were passages I couldn't ignore, so I left a couple of thoughts of my own. If that's too bold, I promise I'll wait next time (though waiting isn't my best skill. Evidence: me checking this book three nights in a row just awaiting your response!).

I can't describe how it felt to open the cover tonight and see your envelope instead of mine. Relief, surprise, a little silly grin the book‑keeper definitely noticed. I've never read with someone before, at least, not like this. To have another mind meet mine in the exact sentence where my heart pauses... it's a privilege I don't take lightly.

I wonder how often you visit, I visit most nights after work. My shifts run late, so I usually sneak in around closing, cappuccino in hand. Rain or not, Bellamy's has become my favorite part of Seattle.

A few details in case you'd like a clearer picture of the stranger in your margins.

My name is Carina (she/her), I'm 28, and I moved here from Italy about six months ago for a research position. I grew up surrounded by books, half of my childhood closet was novels instead of shoes. Sadly, my library stayed behind with my family, so Bellamy's feels a little like breathing again. I've made friends at work, but the city still feels enormous some nights, and I'm still learning to embrace an umbrella as a fashion accessory.

I wish I knew when you visited, not to corner you (promise!) but so I'd know when to expect your reply and avoid looking like a suspicious repeat‑page‑flipper every evening. I also wonder if the book‑keeper has guessed what we're up to; he's started giving me that knowing eyebrow.

Your comments struck me deeply, especially your line about still living in a place you escaped. I wanted to ask: are you safe, M? Physically and emotionally. You never have to share details you're not ready for, but I wanted you to know you're not alone in these pages. If you ever need to set down something heavy, I can hold it for a while, then when you’re ready, you can take it back.

I hope today brings you a sentence that feels like sunlight, and that somewhere between paragraphs you remember just how seen you truly are.

With gratitude (and an umbrella at the ready),
Carina

— sealed carefully so only you will read it.

She reread it once, cheeks warm at her own earnestness, then folded the page and slipped it into a matching purple envelope. This time she pressed the flap closed, soft, decisive and scrawled a single letter on the front:

M

Carina tucked the envelope behind the front cover, right where M's letters had waited for her, and closed the book with a gentle finality. The shop lights glimmered against the windowpane as she rose, heart lighter than when she'd arrived.

Tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever M returned, something would be waiting.

And until then, that would be enough.

Chapter Text

Maya.

She hadn't waited a week this time. It had only been two days.

Two days of rereading the last note, each word looping through her like a melody she didn't want to stop humming. Two days of wondering how someone she hadn't met, well not really, could feel so achingly familiar. Two days of sitting at work, eyes glazing over project decks, because her mind kept drifting to a sealed envelope and a stranger without a name.

Maya didn't even realize she had been craving more until the silence felt unbearable. Until she caught herself sitting in her apartment with her fingers tracing over the loops of her own last letter like the paper might reveal more if she just looked hard enough.

But it didn't.

So that's why she was here on a Saturday morning, early enough that Bellamy's smelled like freshly ground beans and the city hadn't yet remembered how to be loud. For once, the sky was a rare stretch of pale blue, and Maya felt grateful for the coincidence.

The bell above the door chimed. The same quiet man was behind the counter, he glanced up with what could only be described as a knowing look and Maya fought back a smile.

She went straight to the shelf. To their book.

Her fingers trembled just slightly as she opened it, the movement somewhere between reverence and impatience. And there it was. A neatly sealed envelope, her initial in careful handwriting.

She took it to her usual chair and opened it like it was fragile, like it might disappear if she wasn't gentle.

And then she read. And read again.

Her breath caught somewhere around the line about her silly grin, the same grin Maya could picture now, unbidden. Her heart squeezed at

privilege I don't take lightly

and by the time she got to

you're not alone in these pages

she had to press the letter briefly to her chest to stop something in her from overflowing.

But the one word that made her heart stop.

Carina.

She had a name now. A voice, a rhythm in the way she wrote. The gentle honesty in her words, the careful balance of vulnerability and kindness and Maya felt her chest ache in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. Not sadness, not longing. Just... recognition. A sense of being met.

She smiled at the line about the bookkeeper's eyebrow. And when Carina asked if she was safe, really safe, Maya's smile faltered.

She was safe now, yes. But the fact that someone had asked, without prying, just offering to hold something heavy for a while, that? That undid her more than she expected.

For a long moment, Maya sat in quiet, the letter in her lap, her fingers absently tracing the folded edges. Her mind was racing in a way it hadn't in years, not with panic, but with possibility.

There was someone in the world who thought about her, not her résumé, not her mistakes, not her body or achievements or public face but her, in the quiet ways. In the way she wrote in margins.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Maya didn't feel like she was writing into the dark.

Maya held the letter close, the pages soft and warm from her hands. She reread certain lines, letting them settle into her. Carina was 28... female... from Italy... been here six months... never read with someone like this before.

It was more than Maya ever expected to learn, and yet, now that she knew it, she craved more.

There was something intimate about the way Carina had revealed herself, not with a grand declaration, but with careful sentences tucked between humour and honesty. Maya could see her now, sat with their book and just a little cappuccino in hand, she smiled at the detail.

She couldn't tell from the handwriting, graceful, fluid, that English wasn't Carina's first language, but it didn't matter. Her words had the clarity of someone who not only knew English, but felt it. Maya wondered if Carina had been fluent long before moving. She wrote too well, too naturally, not to have carried the language with her for years.

Was she staying? Maya's chest pulled slightly at the thought. Maybe she hadn't brought all her books because she wasn't planning to be in Seattle long. Maybe this, whatever this was, was temporary.

And yet, Maya didn't want to ask. Not yet. Not directly.

There was something sacred about the way their connection was unfolding, letter by letter, chapter by chapter, without pressure or expectation.

She thought about the way Carina had asked if she was safe. No one ever asked her that. They assumed she was. Strong. Self-reliant. Capable. And for the most part, she was. But it was different being asked. It made her feel... seen.

So she would do the same in return. She would give back what Carina had given her, honesty, warmth, a piece of herself.

Maya flipped slowly through the familiar pages, the spine of the book bending comfortably beneath her hands like a trusted friend. She'd told herself she was only going to reread Carina's new letter and respond, but instead, she found herself tracing the path they'd carved through the book together.

Before writing anything, she went back. Carina had said she'd read on to Chapter 4, but Maya wanted to revisit everything. She began at Chapter 1, brushing over the place where it had all started, Carina's first margin note with Maya's hesitant reply. It still stunned her, how quickly something so small had become something so important.

By Chapter 2, Maya was reading slower, watching the notes unfold like a conversation she could almost hear out loud. Their exchanges lived here now, tucked between lines that had once felt too big for Maya to share with anyone. But with Carina... it didn't feel like oversharing. It felt like honesty.

She took a breath before diving into Chapter 3. This had been the first time Maya had let something deeper slip out, not just a thought but a confession.

Sometimes I think I've spent my whole life naming things for other people and leaving myself unnamed.

She hadn't known what to expect in return. Carina hadn't responded directly, but a nearby quote. 

"What we are afraid to touch often touches us the deepest."

Carina had written,

Sometimes it's easier to hold space for others than admit we need someone to hold space for us.

It landed in Maya's chest like a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Different words, same truth. She didn't need a direct reply. She felt it, in the alignment of their thoughts, in the space Carina had quietly stepped into beside her.

Her second comment had been more tentative. Hopeful.

Maybe that's what we're doing. Creating something here.

Carina had responded,
I hope we are too.

Just five words, but they held weight. Confirmation. Mutual hope. Possibility.

Then came the last note from Chapter 3, the one that had cost her the most to write.

I am good at going unnoticed. I'm starting to hope I don't have to be invisible anymore.

It was the kind of truth that cracked something open just to get it onto paper.

Carina had responded, simply:
I see you.

Maya felt the tear before she realised it had fallen. She didn't wipe it away.

It didn't matter who Carina was, not yet. Not what she looked like, not where she came from, not even the way her hand curved in that feminine scrawl.

What mattered was that Carina had made her feel more seen, more held, than anyone else ever had.

What mattered was that in this little book, tucked away in a quiet corner of Bellamy's, Maya had found something rare, maybe even something like belonging.

And all it had taken was ink.

Before she wrote anything, Maya turned the pages back to the start.

Carina had said she'd continued to Chapter 4, but Maya wanted to read it all, every note. She wanted to hold every piece of Carina's handwriting close, to linger in the spaces where their thoughts had quietly brushed against one another.

The first note was next to a line Maya could had underlined herself:

"There are silences we carry like heirlooms, passed down, held close, never named."

Beneath it, Carina had written more than Maya expected, her cursive tighter in the margins, like she couldn't hold it in any longer:

-I was raised in a family that talked constantly, but never about the things that mattered. We were loud, but not open. I think that's why I listen so closely now to the quiet between people, to the weight behind what isn't said. Silence was the first thing I learned to interpret, and maybe the hardest to unlearn.-

Maya reread it twice.

It was honest. Raw in a way that felt familiar.

She didn't come from loud people. But she came from silence. Weaponised silence. The kind that said everything without a single word. The kind that taught her to second-guess her own voice. Maya knew what it meant to learn to interpret the quiet, to anticipate mood shifts like weather patterns, to shrink and apologise just to keep the peace.

She reached for her pen, just beneath Carina's words, and wrote:

-I understand silence too. Mine wasn't loud,it was sharp. Cold. I learned early how to read a room by what wasn't said. I'm still trying to unlearn it.-

Further down, toward the end of the chapter, another quote caught her eye.

"Home is sometimes the place you had to leave so you could survive it."

And beneath it, in the same tight script, Carina had offered something else. Something heavier:

-I left Italy for work, for opportunity. That's what I told people. But part of the truth is I needed distance, from the expectations, from the version of myself that only ever smiled and nodded and did what was asked. It wasn't one moment. It was a hundred little ones that made staying feel like shrinking. I love my country, my language, my family. But leaving gave me permission to choose myself.-

Maya let the words settle.

She didn't need to know the specifics. She didn't need to ask. She understood.

-It wasn't always one big thing. It was the endless litany of small ones. -

Maya understands the quiet ways you were told you weren't quite enough. That you could be better, more obedient, less of a burden. That your body, your voice, your needs were too much or too little. That who you were wasn't quite right.

Maya stared at the page until her vision blurred. Then, gently, she reached into her bag for her stationery, thicker paper, soft edges, the kind she only used when something mattered.

She wasn't quite ready to write the full letter yet. But writing Carina's name, just her name, brought a smile to Maya's face that warmed something quiet inside her.

Hi Carina,

Wow!
It feels strange (in a good way) to have a name to respond to now.

Maya laughed under her breath, a short breathy sound that broke the stillness. She tapped her pen against the page, rereading the sentence. It felt silly and sweet and true.

She set the letter aside carefully, placing it next to her on the small table, and picked the book back up, Carina. She tried the name again in her head. It suited her. It really did. Maya didn't even know what she looked like, but the name felt like sunlight. Like warmth. Like something you waited a long time to say out loud.

Opening to Chapter 5, Maya found her rhythm again.

Still, her eyes kept drifting to the letter beside her. To the curve of Carina's name in her own handwriting.

She smiled every time.

The first quote that pulled her in was:

"Some people leave fingerprints on your soul without ever touching your skin."

She underlined it once, firm and certain then wrote:

-That's what this feels like. Like being seen without having to be looked at. To be known without explanation.-

Later in the chapter, a smaller line stopped her mid-sentence:

"To be understood is the closest thing to being held."

Maya circled understood.

In the margin, she added:

-I've been touched before. Maybe not held but never understood. I think versions of myself that I created for other people were understood but never myself.-

The final quote she paused on was simple, but hit hard:

"Sometimes it's the absence that teaches us presence."

Maya tapped her pen softly against the margin, then wrote in careful letters:

-Maybe that's what we're learning, how to show up for each other, even when we're not in the same room-

She closed the book slowly, her fingertips brushing the edge of the paper where Carina's name still waited.

She pulled the letter back toward her.

It was time to write the rest.

I'm so glad my notes were well received. Yours are too, more than you probably realise. And please, never apologise. Be bold. Write as freely as you like. You don't have to stop for me. I'll always be here, waiting.

I moved on to Chapter 5 today, though I'll admit, I didn't get very far before I found myself staring back at your name again and again. Seeing it on the page felt oddly comforting, like a tether. It still makes me smile.

I'm sorry my reply took longer than it should have. I usually visit most days, but I was a little afraid, honestly. Afraid you might not respond, and that if I checked the book and found nothing there, I'd feel the kind of disappointment I wasn't quite ready to carry. But now I know you're here so I promise, all future responses will be much quicker. From now on: one‑ or two‑day turnaround, promise.

And yes, I'm convinced the book‑keeper is onto us. He gave me that arched‑eyebrow look again today. You know, the one that says I know your secret but I'll keep it if you buy another hot chocolate. I didn't even bother acting innocent.

I've never read with anyone before either. As a child, there weren't bedtime stories or shared chapters, just the dark, and my own mind, filling in the blanks. Books became a kind of sanctuary. But reading with you? This has become my favourite way to read. It's intimate in a way I didn't expect.

I tend to visit at lunchtime or early afternoon, never late in the evening. So unless fate decides to interfere, it's unlikely we'll bump into each other. And to be honest, I'm okay with that. I like what we have. It feels safe, steady, and... comfortable in a way I rarely feel with people face-to-face.

Reading about you felt like unwrapping something precious. Every detail added another piece to this strange, beautiful puzzle we're building. If you're anything like I imagine, then details matter to you as much as they do to me, so...

My name is Maya. I'm 26 (almost 27), and though I've lived in Washington my whole life, I've been in Seattle since I was 18. I don't have many friends, and my job is far from exciting but it gives me a stable life, and more importantly, a safe one.

To answer your question, yes. Physically and emotionally, I'm safe now. I haven't always been, but... I am now. And knowing you cared enough to ask? That you saw something in my words and wanted to check? That means more to me than I can express here.

May I ask the same of you? Are you safe, Carina? I know you're far from home and family in a way I cannot begin to imagine. Does Seattle feel gentle enough most days? Do the pages help? Could I do anything to help further?

I've never travelled, not yet. Rome lives on my bucket list, along with the English countryside (blame the Brontes and Austen). If you ever feel like sharing little Italy secrets, favourite pastries, hidden bookshops, please do. For now, I'll travel through your stories until I can visit myself.

What brings me joy? This. These pages. You. There's something quietly profound in the way this has unfolded, word by word, note by note, like a story within a story we're writing together without even meaning to. May I call this a friendship? It feels like one already, though somehow deeper than what I've known before. There's no small talk here, no performance. Just honesty, curiosity, and something that feels like trust growing between the margins. You make me smile with every word you share, even when the words are heavy. Especially then. Because they're real, and brave, and they make me feel a little less alone.

I've always believed something magical happens when you read a book. But reading it with someone? That's an entirely different kind of magic.

Thank you for being my magic.

Write soon,
Maya

Maya read over the letter one last time, her handwriting slightly slanted from where her hand had trembled, not with nerves exactly, but with something that felt a lot like anticipation.

She sealed the envelope gently, pressing down the fold with the side of her thumb before reaching for her pen once more. Across the front, in neat, careful script, she wrote:

Carina.

It looked right. Familiar already.

She placed the envelope carefully between the pages of the book, exactly as they had done before. Her movements were deliberate, like the act of tucking it there made everything real. Then, with equal care, she slipped Carina's letter, the one that had made her chest ache in the best way, into her bag. That letter wasn't staying behind. It was coming home with her. It was the kind of letter you kept close. The kind you reread when silence crept in too loud. It was honest, raw, and unfiltered, and it had made Maya smile in a way she couldn't ever remember doing before, not ever, not like this. Not in that way that made her feel seen.

Returning the book to the shelf felt almost ceremonial now. Their quiet ritual. She lingered a little longer, fingertips brushing the spine, before turning to leave.

As she crossed the floor, the bookkeeper looked up again, meeting her eyes with the faintest hint of a knowing smile. That same look. The one that said, I know something.

Maya didn't look away this time. She smiled back. He definitely knew.

But she didn't mind. She didn't mind him knowing. In fact, let the whole store know. She had Carina now, through words, pages, ink, and all. And if someone knowing their little secret meant helping them keep it, then Maya was more than okay with that.

Chapter Text

Carina

There had been a noticeable change in her step since the last letter. A lightness she couldn't hide, not even when she tried. Carina had floated through the week, and apparently, not very discreetly.

"You're practically glowing," Amelia had said with a suspicious glance over the rim of her wine glass two nights ago. "Last week, you looked like you were ready to set your lab coat on fire."

Carina had laughed it off, muttering something about finally cracking the data set that had been frustrating her for weeks, but it wasn't the truth. The truth was folded carefully in her desk drawer, creased at the corners from how many times she'd read it.

The name itself was still unknown, like a song title she hadn't yet figured out. There was something in them, the quiet honesty, the way she saw the world through emotion rather than distraction that made Carina feel... anchored. M's letter had felt like being invited into a secret room in someone's heart.

She had hoped, when she wrote her last letter, that M would feel safe enough to write back not just with notes in the margins, but with herself. And she had.

That's why at exactly 8:03 p.m., Carina was sprinting down the street, her coat flaring behind her, ignoring the chilly wind nipping at her cheeks. Bellamy's closed at 8:30. She had twenty-seven minutes to see if M had left her anything new. Twenty-seven minutes to feel that flutter in her chest again.

She pushed open the door a little too eagerly, the small bell above it chiming with a familiar ring.

The bookkeeper looked up from the counter and smiled, one of those tight-lipped, all-knowing smiles that told Carina everything she needed to know. He didn't speak, but his eyes flicked deliberately to the far end of the fiction section.

She lit up.

"Is it too late for a coffee?" she asked, breathless but hopeful.

Still silent, the bookkeeper reached for a mug and began brewing without hesitation. He didn't need to answer. He knew what she really came for.

Carina didn't wait. Her heart was already beating too fast, and her fingers tingled with anticipation. She had her heart set on one thing tonight, and she was going to get it.

The book. The margins. The next piece of their story.

Carina didn't open the book right away. She didn't need to, not this time. Something in her chest already knew Maya had written back. The kind of knowing that settled deep in her bones, quiet and certain. She made her way to her usual seat by the window, her fingers brushing lightly over the front cover as she sat. The book had become sacred, a home for things she didn't know she'd been missing until they were offered.

Within minutes, the gentle clink of ceramic pulled her back. A coffee was set beside her, perfectly made, no words exchanged. She glanced up and offered a grateful smile to the bookkeeper, who simply nodded and walked away. She'd pay before leaving, she always did. He knew that.

Her fingers hovered for a second, just long enough to feel the thrum of anticipation in her pulse. Then, with a breath, she opened the book.

There it was. An envelope, carefully placed between pages. Her name written in soft ink. Seeing it like that made her heart flutter, the neat handwriting curling with quiet intent. The envelope was sealed, but somehow it felt more intimate this time. Like it had been sealed just for her, with care and something fragile pressed into its fold.

She opened it slowly, meticulously, not wanting to tear even the tiniest corner. The paper inside unfolded like a whisper.

Hi Carina,

Wow!
It feels strange (in a good way) to have a name to respond to now.

Carina laughed out loud, covering her mouth instinctively, but the joy bubbled up anyway. She loved the way it was written, so full of warmth, of life, of personality. The words danced across the page, and with them, M felt suddenly closer than ever before.

I'm so glad my notes were well received. Yours are too, more than you probably realise

Carina's chest tightened, and her fingers curled around the edge of the page. The idea that someone looked forward to her words like this made her feel something she hadn't in a long time. Seen. Valued.

The next few lines made her smile wide, especially M's confession about re-reading her name. Like a tether, she wrote.

As she reached the part about fear, admitting how afraid she'd been to find nothing waiting, Carina had to pause. She closed her eyes for a moment and let out a breath. Because she'd felt that same fear. Every time she opened the book. Every time she left something behind. They were building something delicate together, something neither of them wanted to lose.

The line about the bookkeeper made her laugh again, wiping a tear that rolled down her cheek as laughter and emotion tangled in her throat. It was all so wonderfully human, so real.

And then came the part that made her chest ache.

As a child, there weren't bedtime stories or shared chapters, just the dark, and my own mind, filling in the blanks

She didn't mean to cry. Not really. But the image of a child curled in the dark, making up stories to keep herself company, it was too much. Carina blinked back the tears but didn't rush past the moment. She sat with it. Let it hurt. Let herself feel it. Because that was the whole point of this, to be real. Letting the truth breathe.

Then came her name.

Maya.

She whispered it under her breath like a prayer, like a secret only her heart was allowed to keep. It suited her. Strong and soft all at once.

As she read the details about Maya's age, her life in Washington, the quiet loneliness wrapped in steady routine, Carina felt an almost instinctive pull to reach across the distance. To fill in the gaps Maya didn't even know she was revealing. It made her want to share everything. Her home. Her country. Her stories. Her favourite cafés tucked into alleyways in Rome, the way the air smells in Florence at sunrise. The taste of real ricotta on warm bread. She wanted Maya to know it all.

When she reached the part about joy,

This. These pages. You...

it broke her a little more. In the best way.

Tears flowed freely now. Not the loud kind, but the quiet, reverent kind. The kind that slipped down cheeks and settled in smiles. The kind that reminded her she was alive and feeling, connecting with someone in a way that transcended everything she thought she knew about intimacy.

"May I call this a friendship?" Maya had asked.

Carina nodded, eyes brimming. "Yes," she whispered to no one. "Please."

She reread the letter. Again. And again. Letting the words sink in. Letting the silences between them speak too. She smiled at the bravery tucked between the lines, at the softness she never knew she craved until it arrived with curled corners and ink.

Maya said she was her magic. But to Carina? Maya was the home away from home that she didn't know she needed.

Carina continued with the rhythm that had become so instinctual it felt like muscle memory, ritualistic, almost sacred. She'd always begin the same way: reading Maya's letter first, letting every line settle into her skin, into the quiet corners of her heart where only Maya's words seemed to reach. Then, coffee cooling at her side, she'd flip back through Chapter 4 to check the margins where she'd written her own thoughts the week before, hoping that Maya had responded.

She had. Of course she had.

Carina's pen had paused at two particular quotes that lingered long after the pages had turned.
"There are silences we carry like heirlooms, passed down, held close, never named."

And next to it, in that now-familiar, slanted handwriting, Maya had responded:

-I understand silence too. Mine wasn't loud, it was sharp. Cold. I learned early how to read a room by what wasn't said. I'm still trying to unlearn it.-

Carina's breath caught when she read the quote the first time, and again now, days later. There was now something in those words

Sharp. cold.

It painted a clearer picture of Maya's childhood than any long explanation could have. It told her everything and nothing at once. There was a loneliness there that echoed, even between the lines. A girl who had survived by becoming fluent in the quiet. Carina wanted to reach back through time and wrap that little girl in warmth. She didn't know how, not really, but she knew she'd try.

The second note sat under a quote Carina had underlined twice before writing next to it.
"Home is sometimes the place you had to leave so you could survive it."

And Maya, once again, had replied:
-It wasn't always one big thing. It was the endless litany of small ones.-

That one hit differently. It was vague, but precise in its vagueness like Maya was drawing the outline of pain without filling it in. Carina understood. It wasn't always a single blow or a catastrophic moment. Sometimes it was the slow drip of unkindness, the heavy quiet of unmet needs, the way love was withheld like a reward you hadn't earned. She wanted to tell Maya: You didn't deserve that. You didn't have to earn being safe.

Still, despite the ache in her chest, Carina smiled softly, tracing the edge of the page before moving to Chapter 5. Maya had made her own notes there, ones Carina would now read for the first time, her thoughts, feelings, maybe even another small piece of her heart spilled across the paper. Carina read carefully, intentionally, wanting to feel close to Maya in every scribbled word.

Carina typically took her time with each chapter, lingering on sentences that made her pause, rereading lines that made her feel something she couldn't quite name. But time wasn't on her side tonight.

She had spent nearly all the minutes she had before closing reading Maya's letter, once, twice, then a third time and catching up on the scribbled margin notes in Chapter 4. She hadn't yet touched Chapter 5, let alone started Chapter 6 or written her own response. The shop had emptied around her without her even noticing. Now, she was the only one left.

The lights had dimmed slightly, the quiet settling in like a soft blanket. She glanced toward the front desk and then back down at the book that still sat open in front of her. The idea came suddenly, and with it, a flutter of hope.

Maya had said she visited in the afternoons. Maybe, just maybe, if she acted quickly, she could borrow the book, take it home, and return it first thing in the morning before Maya ever knew it was missing.

She picked up her empty coffee cup and made her way to the desk, nerves tapping at her ribs as she approached the bookkeeper. He was halfway through wiping down the counter, and looked up with a mild expression of surprise when she spoke.

"I wondered if it was possible I could pay to loan the book for the night?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual, though her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her bag. "I'm a little later than usual and I haven't had a chance to finish today's pages... but I'll return it as soon as you open tomorrow. It needs to be here, for her, by the afternoon."

He paused, studying her with a quiet kind of amusement, then nodded once with a knowing smile.

"Take it," he said simply. "And I'll see you tomorrow. Good night, Carina."

She blinked. Carina.

He knew her name.

A soft warmth spread across her chest, not fear, nor suspicion, just... something tender. Maybe he'd seen the letters, or maybe he'd read the names scrawled on the front of the envelopes tucked between the pages. She wasn't sure. But there was no judgment in his voice. Just kindness.

She returned his smile, her heart fluttering just a little faster. "Good night," she said, barely above a whisper.

Back at her table, she packed up quickly, careful and methodical. She placed the book in her bag as though it were something sacred, protecting it from the drizzle already gathering outside, from the wind that picked up around corners, from anything that might smudge the ink or dampen the pages of the story unfolding inside it.

As she stepped out into the Seattle night, the sky heavy with cloud and possibility, she felt a quiet thrill in her chest.

Tonight, she had the book.
Tonight, she had Maya.
And tonight, she had every intention of writing back.

Carina made it home in record time, slipping in through the front door without a word to her roommates and heading straight to her bedroom. She didn't bother changing or unpacking the rest of her bag, her focus was singular. Under the soft amber glow of her bedside lamp, she sat cross-legged on the bed, the book resting like a treasure in her lap.

She hadn't even opened it yet, but her fingers lingered at the edges as though she could feel the warmth of Maya's words through the cover. Still, she made herself wait. She had a system, and tonight would be no different.

Carina flipped to Chapter 5 and began reading.

She read quickly but attentively, letting the text sweep her up without looking at the margins. It wasn't easy, resisting the pull of Maya's handwriting, but Carina had made a promise to herself: the story came first. Their story would come after.

Halfway through the chapter, one line snagged her breath.

"Love is not always loud; sometimes it's the whisper you don't notice until everything else is quiet."

It wasn't underlined. Maya hadn't marked it. But something about it sank into Carina's chest like a stone.

She took her pen and gently wrote beside it:

-I think I used to believe love had to be loud to be real, grand gestures, declarations, something that echoed. But maybe that was just noise. Maybe real love is quieter, steadier.-

And then, finally, she let herself look.

Her eyes drifted to the margins, to Maya's delicate, slightly slanted handwriting. The words waiting for her felt like a secret gift.

The first quote Maya had underlined was:

"Some people leave fingerprints on your soul without ever touching your skin."

Maya had written: That's what this feels like. Like being seen without having to be looked at. To be known without explanation.

Carina smiled, her fingers tracing over the ink as she responded:

-You don't need to touch my skin for me to feel you. I see your soul, your strength, your beauty, your passion, it reaches me. It rests in my heart like it was always meant to be there.-

The second annotation came a few pages later:

"To be understood is the closest thing to being held."

Maya had circled the word understood and added: I've been touched before. Maybe not held, but never understood. I think versions of myself that I created for other people were understood, but never myself.

Carina's eyes stung.

She took a breath and added softly:

-I don't think I've ever been me. Just a version I had to be to survive, to succeed, to be loved on someone else's terms. But I think... with you, I'm learning how to be.-

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the feeling settle. There was something in Maya's honesty that cracked her wide open every time.

And then came the final quote:

"Sometimes it's the absence that teaches us presence."
Maya had written: Maybe that's what we're learning, how to show up for each other, even when we're not in the room.

Carina rested her hand over the words, her heart thudding.

-I'll show up for you. In the quiet, in the margins, in whatever way you need. Just say the word and I'll be there, in a heartbeat, in a breath, always.-

When she finally set the pen down, Carina leaned back against the headboard and let out a slow, shaky breath. It amazed her, how deeply she felt this pull, this connection to someone she hadn't even met. She didn't know Maya's face, her voice, the shade of her eyes. But she knew her soul. She felt it, clear as anything.

This wasn't the kind of love she'd known before, surface-level, physical, fleeting. This was different. This was soul-deep. Intimate. Electric.

And as she turned the page to begin Chapter 6, ready to write her letter, Carina knew one thing for certain: she didn't want to let go, of Maya. Ever.

Her fingertips brushed the corner of the page before she settled into the words, grounding herself, determined not to rush. This chapter felt different already, perhaps because it was the first one she'd read with Maya in mind, her name now carved into Carina's memory in ink as permanent as her feelings were becoming.

She read slowly, absorbing each line, letting the rhythm of the prose settle in her chest. She didn't just want to annotate this chapter; she wanted to leave parts of herself behind in the margins, the way Maya did. She wanted Maya to see her the way she saw Maya. Not just the thoughts she formed, but the truths she carried. The unspoken things she had never written for anyone else.

When she came to the first quote that pulled at her ribs, she uncapped her pen without hesitation:

"The heart remembers things the mind forgets."

She wrote:
-Sometimes I forget why I left home. Then I feel it, in the pit of my stomach. The ache. The emptiness. The truth is, I didn't leave for opportunity. I left to survive my own becoming. My heart always knew before I did.-

Her pen lingered on the paper before moving on. She kept reading, eyes scanning for that next sentence that would hit just right. And then it came.

"You can't unfeel something just because it makes you uncomfortable."

She exhaled deeply before writing:
-I was brought up that the way I feel should be wrong, but it didn't feel wrong it just made me feel wrong. I can't help how I feel and who I feel it for-

Another passage sat quiet on the page, but it stirred something in her.

"Maybe the bravest thing we ever do is allow ourselves to be seen."

Carina paused here, heart racing a little. She didn't rush this one. She thought of Maya, of her honesty, her openness, her bravery in giving her name, her past, her tenderness. She wanted to match that.

She wrote slowly:
-Then you are the bravest person I've never met. And I'm trying. Truly, I am. I want you to see me. Not just the version who writes between the lines but the real me, when I find her. I think maybe... you're helping me.-

Her handwriting had softened by now, a little messier, but no less sincere.

When the chapter ended, she let the book rest in her lap, palms open against its spine like it was something sacred. It was. She hadn't just read another chapter, she'd bared another layer. Not for the sake of being seen by anyone else. Just Maya.

Carina reached for a fresh piece of paper, the weight of her response letter already sitting in her chest, waiting to be written.

But first, she looked at everything she had written and hoped Maya would feel it, feel the honesty, the soul of it. That she'd read her notes and feel as understood as Carina had when she read hers.

Dear Maya,

You made me cry, the good kind of crying, the quiet kind that sneaks up on you when you didn't realise you've been holding your breath. Your letter felt like an exhale I didn't know I needed, and suddenly everything in me softened. You have a way of making the world feel a little less sharp.

It's strange but lovely, having your name now. Maya. I've said it out loud more than once this evening, just to hear how it sounds. It suits you, it’s strong and soft at the same time. There's a warmth to it that lingers. Now I can't read anything in the margins without hearing your voice in my head, the voice I imagine you have.

Thank you for telling me to write freely. I didn't realise how much I needed that until I read it. I've always been careful with my words, neat, safe, polite but your letters have made me braver. There's something about you, Maya, that makes me want to step out from behind the curtain.

I had to laugh when you admitted to staring at my name. I did the exact same thing with yours. I read your letter more times than I'll admit before I even touched the next chapter. It felt like having company in the room, like you were sitting quietly beside me, sharing the silence in a way that didn't feel lonely.

And you don't need to apologise for the delay. I know what it feels like to be afraid of disappointment, to hesitate before turning the page in case the words you're hoping for aren't there. But you came back. That means everything.

The book-keeper definitely knows something. I borrowed the book tonight (work ran later than expected and I couldn't stand the thought of leaving you without a reply) and when I asked, he just smiled and said, "Goodnight, Carina," like we were old friends. I think he's on our side. Or at the very least, amused by us.

When you said that reading with me feels intimate, I felt that right down to my bones. We've never seen each other, never shared a smile or even a passing glance, and yet you've reached parts of me most people never bother to look for. There's a strange comfort in knowing you're reading these words just as I've written them, no mask, no filter. Just me.

You asked if I'm safe, thank you. Truly. I am. It's taken time, but yes. Physically, emotionally... I think I've found my footing again. Seattle has been many things, but lately, it feels softer somehow. I think that has more to do with you than the city itself. You help me make sense of the world in a way that doesn't feel heavy.

I want you to travel. I hope you do. One day, when you make it to Rome, promise me you'll find a little café tucked off Campo de' Fiori. It has small tables, chipped blue cups, and espresso that tastes like home. And if you ever end up in the English countryside, go in spring. Let the hills be green and wild and let the silence there feel like poetry, not loneliness.

When is your birthday? I want to know. I want to mark it, quietly, in my mind. My birthday is 5th of October. I've never been a Halloween fan (too much chaos), but I adore Christmas. Not the presents, more the feeling of it. The lights, the stillness, the way people soften, even if only for a little while.

My work is in science, more specifically research. It's what my family wanted. They're all doctors, and I think they expected I'd follow in their exact footsteps. I didn't. I still ended up close enough, though sometimes it feels like I missed the mark in their eyes. But I'm proud of the work I do, even if it doesn't always feel like it fits me quite right.

If I had followed my own path, I think it would've led to books or language or art. I speak five languages, I Italian, English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese. I collect them like charms. They remind me there are always new ways to say something beautiful.

And yes, Maya. This is a friendship. Maybe even more, the kind of connection that's rare and quiet and luminous. I haven't had a friendship like this before. There's no performance here, no pressure. Just you and me, meeting in the margins and creating something that feels real and kind.

Please write soon. I miss your words the moment I reach the end of them.

With warmth and something that feels suspiciously like hope,
Carina

P.S. I'll always show up for you. Even in the quiet. Especially there.

The next morning, Carina woke with the book still resting on her chest and Maya’s letter folded gently against her heart. She’d fallen asleep that way, surrounded by ink and paper and the kind of quiet closeness that settled deep in her bones. For a moment, she just lay there, soaking in the warmth of it all, before glancing at the clock and realising she had somewhere to be.

She moved quickly, knowing she had to return the book to Bellamy’s before work. It wasn’t just about keeping her promise to the bookkeeper, though that mattered, he had become an unspoken part of this story but more than anything, she couldn’t bear the thought of Maya showing up and finding the book gone. That kind of disappointment? Carina knew it well. And she’d never want Maya to feel it. Not if she could help it.

The air was crisp and gentle when she arrived at Bellamy’s. The bell above the door gave its familiar chime as she stepped inside. The bookkeeper looked up from behind the counter, already smiling as he spotted the worn novel in her hands.

She walked straight over and set the book down, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. “Returning it,” she said softly.

He nodded, almost like he’d been expecting her. “Have you met her?” he asked as she turned to go.

Carina paused, hand on the door. “No,” she replied quietly.

“She’s lovely,” he said with a knowing kind of warmth. “You make each other smile.”

Carina blinked, the words landing heavier than she expected. She managed a soft smile of her own and nodded before slipping out into the morning light.

But the words followed her all the way to work.

You make each other smile.

He knew.

Not just about the book but he knew about them, whatever this was that was unfolding between pages and paragraphs. And somehow, the thought didn’t scare her. If anything, it made her heart swell.

Because it was worth it. Every early morning. Every late night. Every letter and note. Every heartbeat pressed into paper.

If him knowing this secret in exchange for the one he gave her, knowing these letters brought even the smallest smile to Maya’s face, then yes, it was absolutely worth it.

Chapter Text

Maya

By 11:16 a.m., Maya had reached her limit.

It wasn't just a bad day. It was the worst kind of day, the kind that dug sharp fingers into old wounds and twisted.

She'd been at her desk, halfway through answering a backlog of emails, when a client stormed in, red-faced and loud, fury radiating from him like a furnace. His anger wasn't about the numbers, not really. She knew that. But he shouted anyway, accusations flying, insults peppered in between. He'd slammed her report down on the desk, demanding an explanation she barely got the chance to give.

Maya didn't cry. She never cried when people were watching.

She sat still, frozen, all her training kicking in. Nod. Speak gently. Don't rise to it. Don't flinch.

But her chest had tightened. Her fingers trembled slightly on the desk. And when Vic had appeared, like some sort of guardian angel in a pencil skirt, and calmly told the man that his behaviour was unacceptable, Maya had to breathe through the threat of a panic attack she hadn't had in years.

The second the door slammed behind him, Vic turned to her gently.

"Take the day, Maya."

"I'm fine," Maya lied. "I've got the Henderson brief"

"Maya." Vic's tone softened but didn't budge. "Take the day. Go breathe somewhere that doesn't smell like stress and printer ink. Please."

Maya didn't like being told she needed a break. It felt like failure or weakness. But Vic hadn't said it out of pity, just concern and somehow that made it harder to argue. So, eventually, she nodded and left, grateful and aching and exhausted.

Her first thought was Bellamy's.

Even though she knew it was unlikely Carina had responded already, she'd only left her letter yesterday afternoon but Bellamy's felt safe. Familiar. It had become her quiet refuge, the place where she could loosen the strings around her chest and just be.

She picked up a sandwich from the café on the corner, something basic she wouldn't remember eating and walked the familiar few blocks to the bookstore. It was quieter than usual when she arrived, the rain just beginning to drizzle outside. A bell chimed above the door as she stepped in, the scent of old paper and fresh coffee, her shoulders dropping a little.

She walked toward the shelf without letting herself hope. It was too soon. She knew that. But part of her still ached to see Carina's writing waiting for her in the margins.

Only, the book wasn't there.

Maya stopped.

The shelf had a noticeable gap. No book. No note. Her heart jumped into her throat.

Had someone else taken it?

Or... was Carina here?

Her eyes swept the shop in a quiet panic. There were a few customers browsing the shelves, but no one close to her age. No one that made her heart stutter the way she imagined it would when she finally saw Carina in the flesh.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for.."

Before she could finish, the bookkeeper pulled the familiar hardback from behind the counter and placed it gently on the desk.

"She brought it back first thing," he said with a knowing smile. "You're earlier than usual, so I hadn't had the chance to put it back just yet."

"Brought it back..." Maya echoed, touching the book with careful fingers like it might vanish before her.

"She came in late last night. Said she couldn't sleep without knowing it would be here for you today. Insisted, actually."

Maya's throat tightened. The idea of Carina carrying the book home, sleeping with it close, then getting up early just to return it, for her, made something deep inside her unfold.

The bookkeeper turned away and started making a drink without asking, his movements calm and practiced.

Moments later, he returned with a hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, just like last time.

"You looked like you could use this," he said simply, setting it down beside her. "Take your time."

Maya sat down slowly, the book resting like an anchor in her hands.

Opening the book, Maya found her name written softly across the front of the envelope in Carina's familiar script. Her breath caught, her fingers trembling slightly as she held it.

There was something about seeing her name in Carina's handwriting that struck a chord, like being seen in a way she wasn't used to. Like someone had chosen her, carefully, with intention.

Her eyes pricked with tears before she'd even opened it.

She took a deep breath, carefully unsealing the envelope like it was made of glass, like it held something sacred because it was. Inside was Carina's next letter, and as Maya unfolded the paper, she could already feel the edges of her day beginning to soften.

And then she read.

You made me cry, the good kind of crying...

Maya blinked rapidly. She cried because of me? Not out of hurt or grief, but because something she said offered comfort. That thought alone cracked her open more than she expected.

She continued reading slowly, as if savoring each word might somehow let her keep Carina a little longer.

It's strange but lovely, having your name now. Maya.

She smiled without meaning to. Carina had said her name out loud. Multiple times. Just to hear it. Maya closed her eyes and tried to imagine how that might've sounded, Carina with her Italian accent, maybe in her kitchen, still in work clothes or perhaps her pyjamas, whispering "Maya" into the quiet. Her name, said with care. With affection. It made her chest ache in the best possible way.

You have a way of making the world feel a little less sharp.

Carina talked about being careful with her words, about how Maya's letters made her braver. That she wanted to step out from behind the curtain. And Maya knew that feeling all too well, hiding behind pleasantries, neatness, the version of herself the world found easier to accept. But Carina... she was pushing past that.

You came back. That means everything.

God, she had no idea how much that line would stay with her. That someone had noticed, had felt her return and welcomed it.

Then came the mention of the bookkeeper, and Maya let out a quiet laugh through the lump in her throat. She could picture it perfectly, his gentle manner, his soft understanding. Of course he knew but Carina was right, he was on their side. Whatever this was, they had an ally.

But it was the next part that rooted Maya to the spot, that made her feel like time itself had paused to let her breathe again.

When you said that reading with me feels intimate, I felt that right down to my bones.

Maya swallowed hard. She hadn't known if it would be too much to say, too revealing. But Carina had felt it too. That shared silence. That connection woven between pages and she named it. She made it real.

Then came the soft reassurance.

I am safe.

Maya hadn't even realised how much she needed to hear that. Just knowing Carina was okay, that she had found a softer landing after what must have been some kind of storm, made her feel strangely protective, but also relieved. She's safe. And somehow, a piece of Maya was safer just knowing that.

She read slower when the letter turned to travel, wanting to tuck away every detail like it was treasure.

Rome. A tucked-away café near Campo de' Fiori. Chipped blue cups. Espresso that tasted like home.

She could see it in her mind, Carina there, legs crossed delicately at a tiny table, the sun brushing against her skin, a notebook or maybe even a book open beside her.

And then the English countryside in spring. Poetry, not loneliness.

Maya pressed her fingers to her mouth, feeling both full and hollow all at once. Like the version of herself that had never seen the world just reached toward someone who had and that someone wanted her to go. Wanted her to see it.

Then came the quiet question.

When is your birthday?

Her hand instinctively went to the inside cover of her own notebook, where she wrote things she never wanted to forget. She'd add it there. October 5th. Carina's birthday. A soft name paired with an autumn date. A contradiction, somehow like her. No love for Halloween but a heart wide open for Christmas. Not the chaos, but the kindness. The softness of people trying.

Maya clutched the letter closer.

I want to mark it quietly, in my mind.

The way she said it, it wasn't just about celebration. It was reverence.

Then, Carina wrote about her work. Research. A life partly chosen by family, but not fully hers. Maya understood that too. How easy it was to drift into paths others had paved for them, even when they didn't fit.

And then...

If I had followed my own path...

Books. Language. Art.

Five languages. Five. Maya smiled, eyes wide with wonder. It was so Carina, curious, elegant, layered. Collecting languages like charms. Finding beauty in expression, in translation, in the small spaces between what is said and what is meant.

Every word was a gift.

And then finally, the part that hit the deepest:

This is a friendship. Maybe even more...

Something luminous. Something kind. Something unlike anything either of them had ever had before.

By the time she reached the end, Maya had reread half the letter already. Her fingers traced the last line like it might disappear.

I'll always show up for you. Even in the quiet. Especially there.

Maya held the letter against her chest, much like Carina must've done with hers. She sat there in Bellamy's, the book beside her, the mug of hot chocolate forgotten as her heart steadied for the first time all day.

Once her heart had settled enough to keep her steady, Maya turned back to the book, not to the pages she hadn't yet read, but to the ones they'd already shared.

Chapter Five.

She needed to know if Carina had left anything else for her there. If her voice still lingered in the quiet spaces between the lines.

Flipping through the pages, her breath caught as she found it, that now-familiar looped handwriting nestled beside her own. A slow, swelling warmth rose in her chest. She hadn't realised just how much she'd craved this now, Carina's presence in ink, her words tucked like secrets meant only for Maya.

There was a comfort in it. A sense of being known so deeply, so clearly, it startled her. She felt herself smile as she brushed her fingers lightly over the margin.

The first quote she came across was one she remembered underlining, though at the time she'd felt foolish for how exposed her note had sounded.

"Some people leave fingerprints on your soul without ever touching your skin."

Beneath it, Maya had scrawled:

That's what this feels like. Like being seen without having to be looked at. To be known without explanation.

And Carina had written:

—You don't need to touch my skin for me to feel you. I see your soul, your strength, your beauty, your passion, it reaches me. It rests in my heart like it was always meant to be there.—

Maya read it once. Then again. And then again.
Her throat tightened.

She sees me.

Not just the version Maya knew how to present. Not the polished, composed, never-faltering version people expected from her. But her. Soul, strength, beauty, passion, those words landed softly, like petals against skin. She wasn't used to being described like that.

And Carina had written it with such certainty. Like it wasn't a maybe, or a fragile wish but a truth.

Maya closed her eyes briefly. She didn't even know what Carina looked like, and yet she felt like she knew her.

A few pages later, she found the next exchange.

"To be understood is the closest thing to being held."

Maya had circled the word understood and written:

I've been touched before. Maybe not held, but never understood. I think versions of myself that I created for other people were understood, but never myself.

And Carina had written beneath it:

—I don't think I've ever been me. Just a version I had to be to survive, to succeed, to be loved on someone else's terms. But I think... with you, I'm learning how to be.—

The words carved something open in her.

She traced the sentence slowly with her fingertip, stunned by how closely it mirrored her own truth. That deep ache of always shifting herself into shapes others found easier to accept. The masks, the survival, the quiet ache of never being fully known.

So am I, she thought. Maybe for the first time.

She turned another few pages and came to the last quote.

"Sometimes it's the absence that teaches us presence."

Maya had written:

Maybe that's what we're learning, how to show up for each other, even when we're not in the room.

And Carina, as always, had responded with something that made her feel like her pulse had steadied again:

—I'll show up for you. In the quiet, in the margins, in whatever way you need. Just say the word and I'll be there, in a heartbeat, in a breath, always.—

There had been so many moments in her life when she'd longed for someone to say that and mean it. To offer not just presence, but devotion. Quiet, consistent devotion. Not the performative, not the fleeting.

It was dizzying to think this had grown from shared paragraphs and anonymous margins. But now it felt like she carried Carina's voice in her bones.

Then, as she turned the page again, she spotted something new.

A line underlined in Carina's handwriting this time. A quote Maya hadn't yet marked, but which now felt like a revelation.

"Love is not always loud; sometimes it's the whisper you don't notice until everything else is quiet."

Beneath it, Carina had written:

—I think I used to believe love had to be loud to be real. Grand gestures, declarations, something that echoed. But maybe that was just noise. Maybe real love is quieter, steadier.—

Maya stared at the words, blinking through a wave of emotion.

She had believed that too, that love had to be bold and dramatic to matter. That silence meant absence. That stillness meant disinterest. But this... this felt like something else. Like discovering a new language. One spoken not in volume, but in meaning.

Carina's love, if that's what it was becoming, was not loud.

It was gentle, it was patient, it was found in the quiet. And maybe, just maybe... that was exactly the kind of love Maya had been waiting for.

Maya didn't pause.

She slipped from one chapter into the next as if guided by something older than routine, something almost sacred now. It had become their rhythm. Their ritual. Read the chapter before to find what the other had left behind. Read the current chapter to feel it together. Read ahead, and leave something behind in return.

No one had suggested it. No agreement had been made. But they both knew that's how this worked.

She found herself moving through the pages with ease, her mind attuned not just to the story but to the hope, almost an ache, to find Carina's voice between the lines. The way she annotated not just words, but feelings. The way she answered Maya like no one ever had, thoughtfully, gently, openly.

The chapter flew by faster than she expected. Maya always found herself wishing books were longer, just to prolong the escape. But reading with someone was a new kind of adventure. One where the connection didn't stop at the spine or the final full stop. She hoped that when this book was over, they'd pick another. That this rhythm between them wouldn't end with the last page.

Midway through the chapter, she reached the first quote that had been highlighted:

"The heart remembers things the mind forgets."

Carina had written beneath it:

—Sometimes I forget why I left home. Then I feel it, in the pit of my stomach. The ache. The emptiness. The truth is, I didn't leave for opportunity. I left to survive my own becoming. My heart always knew before I did.—

Maya sat still for a long time, her eyes scanning the words again and again. There was pain in it, strength and truth.

She didn't write anything in response. Not because she had nothing to say but because some things didn't need words. Some things asked only for witness.

She pressed the pen gently to the margin and drew a small, ink-stained heart next to Carina's note. A quiet gesture. I see you. I hear you. This mattered to me.

She moved on, heart beating just a little heavier.

The next quote came quickly.

"You can't unfeel something just because it makes you uncomfortable."

Carina's handwriting followed just below, slightly smudged at the end like she'd paused before finishing:

—I was brought up that the way I feel should be wrong, but it didn't feel wrong. It just made me feel wrong. I can't help how I feel and who I feel it for.—

Maya stared at the words.

She'd wondered, quietly, cautiously, about Carina's sexuality. But this... this was the first time the wondering had substance. Not confirmation, not definition but something. Something raw and real and familiar.

The ache in those words mirrored something inside Maya so precisely, it stole her breath.

Her father's voice echoed in her head for a split second, those cruel words, those shameful slurs but she shoved it aside, picked up her pen, and told the truth. All of it.

She wrote:

—My father called me every name under the sun when I told him I was gay. Said I was disgusting. That I'd ruined the family name. For a long time, I tried not to feel it, not to be it. But it was never wrong. Not in me. Not in anyone. Who I love doesn't need fixing. And neither do you.—

She sat back and exhaled.

It wasn't just honesty. It was release.

She turned the page.

"Maybe the bravest thing we ever do is allow ourselves to be seen."

And just beneath it, Carina had left her heart again:

—Then you are the bravest person I've never met. And I'm trying. Truly, I am. I want you to see me. Not just the version who writes between the lines but the real me. I think you're helping me.—

Maya felt her chest tighten in a way that was more hope than hurt.

She picked up her pen slowly, carefully, as if her next words needed to live up to what Carina had just entrusted her with.

—You're the brave one, Carina. You leave your heart on the page like it belongs there. You made me feel brave enough to answer back. I think we're helping each other. And maybe... just maybe we can keep doing that.—

Maya turned the page and let Chapter Seven pull her in, but even as her eyes skimmed the printed words, her mind was already elsewhere, drifting inevitably to Carina.

She thought about her more than she probably should. More than she had ever thought about someone she hadn't even met.

It wasn't just when she was reading, though the pages always seemed to hum with the possibility of her. Carina lingered in the space between words, in the ink-stained corners of the paper, in every half-formed thought that made Maya want to scribble something down just in case she might be reading it later.

But it was also when she was doing the mundane things. Cooking something simple and burning it slightly, wondering whether Carina liked to cook or just liked the comfort of someone else doing it for her. Whether she danced around her kitchen barefoot or sat still at the counter with a glass of wine and a tired smile.

She pictured her brunette, warm brown eyes, sun-kissed skin, her hair in a loose bun, strands falling around her face. Her accent would be thick, beautiful, and her smile? Maya imagined it would be the kind of smile that made people feel like they belonged.

But she didn't know.

That was the strange part, how much she felt without knowing. She didn't know if Carina preferred walks through the trees or the open view of the pier. If she liked early mornings or staying up late. If she read slowly or all at once. If she laughed easily. If she ever cried.

She didn't know. But she wanted to. God, she wanted to.

Maya turned the page and two quotes stood out, almost immediately.

"We carry the people we care about, even when they're not near. Sometimes, especially then."

She reached for her pen and wrote beneath it:

-I carry you with me, even when I try not to. Especially when I try not to. You've become a kind of comfort I never expected, threaded through thoughts, through hours, through everything.-

She paused, let the ink dry, then continued on. Another line gripped her, quiet and bold on the page:

"Some of us grow from cracks in the pavement, and bloom anyway."

Maya froze for a second, the weight of it knocking the air from her lungs.

She read it again. Slower. Deeper.

And then, with a trembling hand, she wrote:

-I was raised in a house that taught me strength was silence, and perfection was the only way to be loved. But I grew anyway. I found softness in myself that I wasn't taught. Then I found you, in the quiet, in the cracks and somehow, that makes me believe I can keep blooming.-

She capped her pen and exhaled, the weight of her own words sitting heavy and light in equal measure.

Carina would read them.

She didn't know when, but she would.
And maybe she'd write something back. Maybe she'd feel it too.

Carina,

Your letter's right here next to me while I write, it felt like the only way to do this properly. I read it more than once, by the way. You have a way of making everything feel a little softer, even the bad days... especially the bad ones.

Today was one of those. A full-on terrible day. Work blew up, someone yelled at me for something that wasn't even mine to fix, and I just kind of... shut down. My manager told me to take the afternoon, and instead of doing anything practical with it, I came straight here. To our book. To you. I don't think I even realised what I was doing until I'd already opened the pages. But it helped. You helped, just by being here, even if you didn't know it.

So thank you for showing up, even when you don't realise you are.

And because you asked, my birthday's August 5th, which is weirdly close. I don't usually make a big deal out of it... actually, I sort of pretend it's not happening most years, just like they did when I was a child. But now that you know, it feels a little different, maybe it's worth marking, even if it's just with a book and maybe a slice of cake. That would be new, I've never had a birthday cake before.

You mentioning Christmas made me smile. I've always loved the idea of it more than the reality, I guess. The lights, the quiet, the way everything slows down for a minute. I've never really had someone to share it with though, so it never felt like mine. My family didn't believe in Christmas but if I had to pick a favourite, that would be it. Maybe one day it won't feel like I'm on the outside of it and I will have someone to share it with, I never felt able to celebrate alone.

There's something I wanted to say, I left a note in the book that's a little more honest than usual. About me, something I typically don't share because of the reaction of my father. I don't know why, but writing it to you felt safe. I just... hope it doesn't change anything. I hope you still see me the same. You've never made me feel like I had to be anything other than myself, and I can't explain how rare that is for me.

Reading your words about work made me want to reach through the page and give you a hug (and maybe also throw your family's expectations in the bin where they belong). But honestly, I get it. My dad was all about safe choices too, anything creative was "a waste." I really wanted to study English Lit but he made me choose accounting. I've been looking at evening classes, but committing to change feels scary. I don't know why, it's just... big. But books are where my heart lies, where I feel at home, I wish I had to courage to commit but what if it goes wrong?

And five languages?! That blew my mind. I barely manage one on some days although I have read books in other languages, with help of course. Although I'm sure I'd butcher the pronunciation. Do you have a favourite? what languages make your heart beat faster, where you'd go if you could pack a bag tomorrow. I want to hear about the cafés and cities that live in your memories.

You said my name out loud. I've done the same with yours, if I'm being honest. Carina. I say it in my head more than I probably should. I've also got a picture of you in my head, brunette, maybe tanned, definitely a big smile and an Italian accent that makes everything sound like music. But maybe you're none of those things, so if you feel like sharing, I'd love to know how you see you.

Me? Let's see... shoulder-length blonde hair (usually in a pony-tail), blue eyes, about 5'6" but I slouch when I'm tired. I've got light freckles that I used to hate but have now made peace with. I'm usually quiet but I laugh too loud sometimes. That's me, I guess.

I keep all your letters, by the way. Every single one. They're tucked into a wooden box near my bed. I take them out sometimes when the day's been too heavy. You make the world feel lighter. I sometimes wonder you've kept mine too, there's no pressure to. Just knowing you've read them is enough.

But this, reading and writing with you, it's the best part of my day. The thing I wake up thinking about and go to sleep holding close. You've turned this little corner of my life into something I didn't even realise I was missing.

So please, continue reading and writing when you can. I'll be here, with an open heart and mind, waiting in the margins.

Maya

She placed the envelope inside and closed the book softly, holding it in both hands like it was something precious.

Because it was.

It was her favorite story now.

Not because of the plot or even because of the quotes.

But because somewhere between Chapter One and now, she had started to fall for the girl in the margins.

Chapter Text

Carina.

Carina's fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the letter. The scent of coffee and old paper curled around her as she sat at her usual spot in Bellamy's, tucked away in the corner beside the shelf where it had all begun. Outside, the sky held its familiar Seattle grey, light mist drifting across the windows like breath on glass. She barely noticed. All her attention was on the inked words on the page.

You have a way of making everything feel a little softer, even the bad days... especially the bad ones.

It was always like this, like opening something sacred. She leaned forward, her elbow resting on the edge of the table, her coffee forgotten.

Today was one of those. A full-on terrible day... I came straight here. To our book. To you.

Carina's chest ached. She wished she could have been there. Not just on paper, not just in scribbled words or margins of shared poetry, but there in the flesh, beside Maya on a bench, or across from her with two steaming cups between them. She would've reached for her hand without question. Said nothing, maybe. Just been there. And that would've been enough.

My birthday's August 5th....I've never had a birthday cake before.

Carina sat upright. Never? Her eyebrows drew together, heart clenching at the thought. No cake. No celebration. Nothing. She reached for her phone instinctively and opened her calendar. Tomorrow. August 5th. She marked it with a single word: Maya. And set it to repeat annually.

Her mind started working. Maybe she could leave a card for her here. Maybe even a slice of cake. She made a mental note to ask the bookkeeper if he knew which table Maya sat at, if he could help her with something small and quiet, something that didn't ask for attention but was meaningful.

There's something I wanted to say... I left a note in the book that's a little more honest than usual...

Carina's pulse quickened. She read the line again and again. Her breath caught wondering what it could be.

She could feel the weight behind the words. This was a piece of Maya that had been tucked away for years, maybe even hidden from the people closest to her. But she'd given it to Carina.

And Carina would hold it, whatever it was, with the gentleness it deserved.

I hope it doesn't change anything.

It won't, Carina thought fiercely. Nothing could.

No matter what Maya had written in the margins, she was still the woman Carina had come to know, and love in a strange sort of way. She was soft and strong, afraid and brave, and more open in her vulnerability than most people ever dared to be. Whatever it is, I still see you, Carina thought. Maybe even more clearly now.

Reading your words about work made me want to reach through the page and give you a hug...

A soft chuckle slipped from Carina's lips. Oh Maya, she thought, fondness blooming. If only you knew how many times I've wanted to do the same. How many times Carina wished she could hug Maya.

My dad was all about safe choices too... I really wanted to study English Lit...

Carina's heart tugged again. Another echo of herself in Maya's story. Her father hadn't thought medicine was a waste, but he'd thought feelings were.

Maya's dreams had been pushed to the side, like so many others. And still, she'd found her way back to books, she was here.

Carina decided, then and there, that her next letter would be a push, albeit a gentle one, but a push nonetheless. Take the class, she would write. You deserve to choose your life, not just survive it.

Do you have a favourite language? Where would you go if you could pack a bag tomorrow?

Portuguese, her mind supplied instantly, even before she'd finished reading. Italian was her home, French her childhood rival, but Portuguese was the language she'd chosen that for herself. It had always felt like sunlight.

And English, of course, had given her the world of books. The chance to meet Maya. She smiled to herself, tucking that thought away.

Carina. I say it in my head more than I probably should.

Her lips parted slightly, stunned by the intimacy of it. Maya had pictured her. Brunette, tanned, smiling. An Italian accent that makes everything sound like music.

She blushed, Well. Brunette? Yes. Tanned? Not since the move to Seattle. The accent? Still thick, still present. Still something people commented on. Sometimes with charm. Sometimes with ignorance.

If you feel like sharing...

She would. Maybe in this letter. Maybe the next. But yes she wanted Maya to see her, truly see her. Not just how she looked, but how she moved through the world. How she held her coffee. How she looked up when someone said her name. She wanted to be known.

Shoulder-length blonde hair... blue eyes... freckles...

Carina smiled softly, closing her eyes to picture her. Blonde and freckled, slightly shorter than herself, and with blue eyes. She tried to imagined them, were they ocean blue? Or the darker hue of twilight?

Carina had always been captivated by blue eyes. She wondered what it would be like to look into Maya's and not just imagine them anymore.

I keep all your letters, by the way...

A warmth bloomed through her. Of course she kept Maya's. They were stacked next to her bed, tied with a ribbon that used to hold her hair back during exam season. But to know Maya kept hers too? That made everything feel different. More permanent. More precious.

You've turned this little corner of my life into something I didn't even realise I was missing.

Carina exhaled slowly, the words sinking into her skin. Me too, she wanted to whisper. Every single day.

She read the last line again, then folded the letter gently and held it against her chest, just for a moment. Letting it settle. Letting it stay.

Her fingers reached instinctively for the book.

The pages opened with the ease of something familiar, like an old friend reaching out. She flipped through until she found Chapter Six. She found her own neat highlighter mark first. "The heart remembers things the mind forgets."

Next to it, in her own writing, were the words she hadn't quite dared say aloud to anyone else. How she didn't leave home for opportunity, like she told everyone. She left for survival.

That had been the first time she'd admitted it outside of her own thoughts. And Maya hadn't responded, not in words. But the little heart she'd drawn beside it, small, inked in soft red. It was louder than any sentence could have been.

It had said: I see you. I heard you. I'm here.

And that was enough.

Carina turned the page slowly. The second quote sat there.

"You can't unfeel something just because it makes you uncomfortable."

She knew what she had written there even before her eyes fell on it. The words had lived in her chest for years before they ever made it to the page.

She remembered how her hand had trembled when she wrote it. How she'd nearly torn the page with the weight of letting it out. How she hadn't been sure if she was confessing to Maya or just finally telling her truth.

And then... Maya's handwriting underneath.

-My father called me every name under the sun when I told him I was gay. Said I was disgusting. That I'd ruined the family name. For a long time, I tried not to feel it, not to be it. But it was never wrong. Not in me. Not in anyone. Who I love doesn't need fixing. And neither do you.-

Carina had to close the book for a second, just to breathe.

This was Maya's truth, raw, unhidden, unflinching. And yet it wasn't harsh. It was soft, offered like a hand across the divide, not a declaration, but an invitation.

She still saw Maya, but now she also felt her, in a way that made Carina's heart beat louder in her chest, like a secret longing that had finally been named.

Carina hadn't explicitly said she was queer in that note, she hadn't dared. But Maya had seen her anyway, and instead of stepping back, she had stepped in naming her own truth.

Carina's throat tightened. Her family, her country, the weight of expectations, it was all still there. But maybe, with Maya, it didn't have to be a secret. Maybe, one day, it could be something else. Something shared. Something safe.

She turned to the last marked passage.

"Maybe the bravest thing we ever do is allow ourselves to be seen."

Her handwriting was more hesitant there, softer:

You're the bravest person I know. I'm trying. I really am.

She remembered writing it with a mixture of admiration and shame, because bravery still felt so far away.

But Maya's response had made her breath catch:

-You're the brave one, Carina. You leave your heart on the page like it belongs there. You made me feel brave enough to answer back. I think we're helping each other. And maybe... just maybe we can keep doing that.-

Carina stared at those words now like they were written in gold.

She was helping Maya.

And Maya was helping her more than she could ever explain. More than ink and paper could possibly hold.

More than she could admit yet. Not yet. Not even to herself.

She wasn't ready to call it anything.

But she knew this: Maya mattered. And the space between their letters, the space between the margins, was starting to feel a lot like hope.

Carina's fingers turned the page with a kind of reverence now, as if she were uncovering a treasure rather than just paper and ink.

Chapter Seven.

She inhaled softly as her eyes caught the first underline, a steady line drawn beneath the words:

"We carry the people we care about, even when they're not near. Sometimes, especially then."

Maya's handwriting curved delicately beneath it, her pen heavier on some letters, like emotion had guided the stroke more than intention:

-I carry you with me, even when I try not to. Especially when I try not to. You've become a kind of comfort I never expected, threaded through thoughts, through hours, through everything.-

Carina's breath hitched before the smile bloomed, slow, then all-consuming. It wasn't a careful smile. It was big. Bold. The kind of smile she hadn't let herself feel in weeks. Maybe months.

Maya was naming what Carina hadn't yet been brave enough to say aloud, what she barely dared to think, and yet here it was, threaded through a margin.

Carina felt it too.

Maya wasn't just a voice on a page anymore. She was the flicker of thought between experiments, the echo in a song, the pull at the edge of sleep. She was comfort in chaos. And Carina craved her. Her thoughts, her truths, her everything.

Carina picked up her pen and gently wrote above the quote, her handwriting a little more slanted than usual, like her heart was leaning in too:

-I think I started carrying you before I even realised it. You're in my mornings, in my coffee, in the way I glance at the bookshop window like I'm hoping you'll walk by. You're the voice I imagine when I need steadiness. I didn't mean to carry you but now I don't know how to let go. And maybe I don't want to.-

She paused, then added in smaller, quieter script just beneath:

-If I'm comfort for you, even a little... then maybe this matters more than either of us planned.-

Carina sat back, chest rising and falling with the vulnerability of it all. Her heart beat faster than usual, but it felt good. Honest. Like she'd just turned toward something important instead of away from it.

She turned the page, hand still trembling slightly from her revelation on the previous page and found the next underlined line:

"Some of us grow from cracks in the pavement, and bloom anyway."

There it was again, Maya's handwriting, vulnerable and raw:

-I was raised in a house that taught me strength was silence, and perfection was the only way to be loved. But I grew anyway. I found softness in myself that I wasn't taught. Then I found you, in the quiet, in the cracks and somehow, that makes me believe I can keep blooming.-

Carina's heart clenched, full with something so tender it almost hurt. She pressed her palm to the page like she could reach Maya through it, like touch could fill the space between their confessions.

She picked up her pen and, in small but certain cursive, wrote beneath Maya's words:

-You should be loved not for who they told you to be, but for exactly who you are. And I do. I'm so grateful we found each other in the cracks. You bloom in ways that make me believe I can too.-

She paused, then added a tiny drawing beside the quote, a single daisy, stem slightly crooked, petals imperfect and open, growing from a line of cracked pavement she shaded in faint grey.

It felt right. A symbol of both of them. Not flawless, but reaching for the light anyway.

Carina usually couldn't wait to read on or respond to Maya's letters, her heart normally danced at the thought of every word waiting for her in the margins. But right now, her fingers hovered over the page like they might burn. She couldn't move on, not yet.

The words she'd just written stared back at her, exposed and vulnerable, like a confession whispered too loudly in a quiet room.

Had she said too much?

She wasn't sure what crossed a line, was it saying Maya was in her mornings, her coffee, her steady voice? Was it admitting she didn't know how to let go, or worse, that she didn't want to?

What if she'd misunderstood this whole thing? What if Maya had only been looking for friend, not the kind of connection that lived in Carina's chest now, the kind that made her look for Maya in the shape of strangers and the sound of pages turning?

She closed the book gently but with trembling hands. Her heart thudded unevenly, her breath catching in her throat. It was too late now. The words sat there like truth does, quiet and irreversible.

And for once, instead of worrying someone might find what she'd written by accident, Carina was scared that Maya, the one person meant to find it, might not feel the same. Might read it and pull back. Might not be ready. Might not want her.

The thought made her stomach twist.

She decided not to read on. Not yet. It wasn't that she didn't want to, she couldn't. Not until she knew she hadn't just set fire to something delicate and good.

Carefully, she tucked the book into her satchel, the same one that had carried medical research papers and lonely lunches, but never something this fragile. She stood, walking it up to the desk.

Before she could speak, the bookshop owner, looked up and smiled softly.

"You don't need to ask, Carina," he said gently. "It's not my book anymore. I just keep it safe for you both."

She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and nodded. "Thank you," she whispered, blinking back tears that had nothing and everything to do with him.

Carina cleared her throat, shifting her weight, unsure why she was still standing there until the question spilled out:
"Where does she sit?"

His eyes warmed, and he pointed across the shop. "Bench by the window," he said.

Carina turned to look, and her chest squeezed.

Of course she did. It was bathed in light, half-hidden but open, just like Maya. She could picture her there, nose in a book, drink in hand, eyebrows pulled together in quiet focus.

Carina smiled softly to herself.

"It's her birthday tomorrow," she said, hesitating. "If I bring something in, could you make sure it's there for her?"

Jon nodded. "I'd be happy to."

He extended a hand. "I'm Jon, by the way."

Carina took it, a laugh bubbling unexpectedly in her throat. "Carina. But you already knew that."

"I did," he said with a smile.

"I was thinking... I could pay for her drink, leave a slice of cake, maybe a card. Nothing over the top. Just something so she knows someone cares."

Jon grinned. "I can make sure she gets that. And for the record, it's a hot chocolate, extra marshmallows."

Carina's heart fluttered with that small, intimate detail. Her image of Maya grew more vivid with every second. Hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. Of course it was.

"Thank you," Carina said, breath soft and full of something almost like hope. "I'll come by tomorrow, return the book, pay for her drink, and leave the cake and card."

Jon nodded again, watching as she turned to leave.

At home, Carina paced the kitchen like the linoleum tiles might hold the answers. One hand gripped the spine of her recipe book so tightly it creaked. She turned pages without reading them, her thoughts moving far too fast to focus.

Chocolate? Vanilla? Something fruity? What if Maya hated frosting? What if she was allergic to something? What if she thought Carina's cake was trying too hard?

"What if this is her first ever birthday cake and I mess it up by getting it wrong?" she muttered aloud, barely aware of how tightly her brow had furrowed.

That's when the front door opened with a gentle click, and Amelia stepped in, dropping her keys into the bowl by the door with a clatter.

"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, cautiously, as though Carina's energy was something she might accidentally trip over.

"No," Carina blurted without missing a beat. "What if this is her first ever birthday cake and I mess it up and then she associates birthdays with regret and disappointment forever?"

Amelia blinked. "I mean, that's... oddly specific. And slightly dramatic. Also, who is she?"

Carina froze, still holding the recipe book like a shield. "No one."

"Uh-huh." Amelia arched an eyebrow. "Carina, you can tell me. Maybe I can help. I mean, not with the baking obviously, I once set a Pop-Tart on fire, but maybe with the spiralling?"

Carina stared at her for a long moment before giving in. Her shoulders sagged as she nodded slowly and moved toward the sofa.

"I need tea for this," she mumbled, and within minutes, they were seated with mugs in hand. Amelia curled one leg under her, waiting.

Carina exhaled, then began. It spilled out of her in a rush: the book café, the underlined passages, the letters, the way her fingers trembled when she opened the pages. The way Maya made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had. She showed Amelia the book, letting her fingers brush over the notes like they were fragile. She didn't skip anything, not the hesitations or the truth, especially her truth.

"I think I'm falling for her," Carina whispered finally, voice soft like it might shatter in her throat. "And I haven't even met her."

She waited for laughter, for teasing, for Amelia to call her ridiculous but it never came.

Instead, Amelia reached out and took her hand, her eyes unexpectedly full of something steady. Understanding. Kindness.

"It sounds to me like Maya likes you just as much as you like her," Amelia said gently. "This is something special, Carina. So write back. Bake the cake. Maybe chocolate, since she likes hot chocolate. And then just... wait. Give her the chance to show up for you, too."

Carina's throat tightened, but this time it was with gratitude, not fear. She squeezed Amelia's hand and pulled her into a hug, one full of silent thanks.

The kitchen soon filled with the scent of melting chocolate and warm sugar, and Carina let the familiar rhythm of baking calm her heartbeat. Measuring, whisking, pouring, it all felt grounding, like a reminder that even when she couldn't control the outcome, she could still give it her best effort.

She'd chosen a rich chocolate recipe and added shavings of milk and white chocolate into the batter for extra softness.

With the cake in the oven and a timer set, Carina wiped her hands on a towel and made her way to the sofa with the well-worn book in her lap. She hesitated before opening it. Chapter 8.

The first quote underlined itself in her mind, almost immediately:

"Maybe home isn't a place. Maybe it's the person who makes you feel safe enough to be soft."

She paused here, pen hovering.
-I left my "home", a country, a name, a version of myself behind, hoping to find the true version of me. You, Bellamys, our book might be the first thing's that's made me feel like I might have found it.-

The next quote wasn't long, but it hit with the force of something deeply true:

"Love doesn't always arrive as a grand declaration. Sometimes, it's a steady presence"

-I think I've always looked for love in the little things. In the quiet. In a well-pulled espresso on a tired morning, in the rush of air before a wave kisses the shore.-

Further down, another line reached up from the page and wrapped itself around her heart:

"Maybe we never really know someone. Maybe we just come to understand the version of them they're ready to let us see."

-I used to think I knew exactly what love should look like, but now... I'm not sure. I think I'm still figuring it out. What I feel, what I need, what's real. Maybe love isn't a picture I can carry in my head. Maybe it's something that unfolds gently and quietly-

Carina finished chapter eight and closed the book slowly, her fingertips lingering on the cover as though it might whisper something back to her. The oven timer chimed from the kitchen, breaking the moment. She stood and made her way back down the hallway, pulling the chocolate cake from the oven and setting it gently on the counter to cool.

In her bedroom, Carina pulled open the drawer of her bedside table and retrieved the birthday card she had picked out that morning. It was simple, with a soft white background, scattered yellow flowers, cheerful bumblebees and small birds dancing across the corners. It reminded her of something quiet and hopeful, like the way Maya's letters made her feel.

She opened it, pen hovering for a moment before it touched the paper.
Inside the card:
Dear Maya,

Happy Birthday.
I don't know what birthdays have looked like for you in the past, but I hope this one feels a little bit like kindness. Like care. Like you're seen.

I thought a lot about what to write in here. The truth is, I don't know you in the way people usually do when they write cards, but I do know the way your words feel. And they've become a part of my days I genuinely look forward to. So this is just... a little piece of that feeling, returned to you.

In my culture, birthdays are often loud and messy and filled with food and family. But sometimes the quiet things say the most. So instead of noise, I offer you this, a slice of cake (home made of course), a cup of hot chocolate (I hear it's your favourite), and a wish for a year that holds softness in all the right places.

There's an old Italian poem I love. I thought of you when I read it last week.

"Ti porto dentro come il mare porta il sale, silenziosamente, sempre."
("I carry you the way the sea carries salt, silently, always.")

With love,
Carina

P.S. I had to guess on the cake, hopefully chocolate is a safe choice. If not, I'm willing to try again... and again. If you have a favourite, please let me know.

Carina gently closed the birthday card and stared at her handwriting for a moment, reading it back twice as if she could ensure it said exactly what she meant. Then, carefully, she sealed the envelope, pressing it closed with slow, deliberate fingers before writing across the front in her neat cursive,

Happy Birthday, Maya.

She added a small daisy in the corner, a quiet signature of sorts, and placed the card aside from the letter she'd be writing just to be sure it wouldn't be mistaken.

With the cake cooling in the kitchen and the house quiet, Carina curled up in her reading chair, Maya's letter once again in her hands. She'd already read it twice, but the words had settled in her chest like a heartbeat. She smiled at the familiar lines, the honesty, the way Maya had opened her world just enough for Carina to see inside. It felt like trust. Like something fragile and precious and growing.

She reached for her usual stationery, the soft cream pages, the pen she always used for Maya and began her reply, slowly, softly, as though speaking right to her heart.

Dear Maya,

I'm so sorry you had such a terrible day. You didn't deserve that, none of it. I wish I could have been there, not just in ink, but in person. To listen. To remind you it wasn't your fault. To make you tea and sit beside you until the world softened again. But I'm so glad that the book brought you comfort, that we did. Even from a distance, I want to be someone who shows up when it matters.

Thank you for telling me about your birthday. August 5th. I hope you don't mind, but I've decided this year you deserve to be celebrated. I know you said you've never had a cake before, and that made me ache in places I didn't expect. So, if it's okay... I made one. A simple chocolate one, my favourite part of birthdays has always been the cake, the bit that reminds you joy can be soft and sweet and shared. I'll be leaving it at Bellamy's, with a card and a wish: that this year brings you even one small piece of happiness you didn't expect.

Christmas... it'll be different for me now too. Back home, it was loud, dramatic, full of food and expectation. Here, it's going to be quieter. A little lonelier, maybe. But I'm looking forward to the stillness, the slower pace, the glow of fairy lights on early evenings. I hope I learn to enjoy the quieter version, whether I spend it alone or with someone. Maybe next year, it'll feel different for both of us.

Maya, your honesty took my breath away. That note you left in the book? I read it, and I felt it. Deeply. Thank you for trusting me with something so tender. Your truth didn't change how I see you, not at all. If anything, it made everything more clear. You've seen my truth too, even when I haven't said it directly. In my culture, queerness isn't accepted, not really, not out loud. It's something I've hidden, struggled with, carried quietly. But maybe... maybe with you, it doesn't have to be a secret anymore. You make me feel seen. And Maya, the way I see you? It won't change. You're my favourite part of every day. And being you, just as you are, will always be enough for me.

I wanted to hug you when I read about your job and your dreams. I wanted to reach through the page and wrap my arms around you and whisper, "You're allowed to want more." I wish your dad hadn't made you choose safety over passion. But it's not too late. You said you're looking at classes so please take the leap. Even if it's scary. Even if it's messy. Choose the thing that makes your heart beat faster. Choose the life that makes you feel like you. And if it goes wrong? I'll still be here, cheering you on. Still proud of you.

Languages... you asked if I had a favourite. I think it's Portuguese. I chose to learn it, it wasn't expected. Italian is home, it runs through me, it built me. French and Spanish were childhood vacations, school, structure. But English... English gave me books. English gave me you. If I could go anywhere right now, I'd go to England. Somewhere coastal and quiet. And I'd take you with me.

You were surprisingly accurate, by the way. I am brunette, still tanned (a little less since I left Italy), and yes my accent is most definitely still there. I'm not sure how to describe my smile, so I'll let your imagination keep doing its work.

And Maya... I've kept all your letters too. Every single one. They're tied with ribbon beside my bed, and I read them when the world feels too heavy. Your words are comfort. A reminder that somewhere out there, someone understands. I don't want this to end either. Not when the book does. Not ever, really. I hope we keep writing, no matter where we are, no matter what changes. I'll keep reading and writing for as long as you do.

So I'll end this here, because the cake still needs icing and I'm determined to get it just right. But I'm here, Maya. In the margins. In between the lines. With you.

Always,
Carina

Carina woke the next morning with a softness in her chest that hadn't been there the night before. The kind of warmth that comes after sorting through every possible doubt and still choosing hope.

The cake was finished, her letter was written, the birthday card signed and sealed, all waiting in a neat pile on her nightstand.

It had helped, telling Amelia. Saying everything out loud had lifted something off her shoulders, and even though Amelia hadn't known Maya, she had believed in the connection they shared. That small bit of outside validation made Carina feel less like she was losing her mind for falling for someone she hadn't met and more like she was holding onto something rare and real.

The cake sat on the counter, cooled and carefully iced. Small, but just enough. Carina had chosen a soft chocolate buttercream and piped tiny edible flowers along the edge, delicate yellows and purples. For the final touch, she had separated one slice, placing it on its own small plate. That slice was Maya's. She'd added a few more flowers and written "Maya" in tiny, looping script with white icing across the top.

Carina stood back and took a picture. The cake looked lovely, and she wished more than anything that the photo could've captured Maya too, her reaction, her smile, the way her eyes might light up. But for now, this would have to be enough. The effort, the intention, the hope, it was all there, baked and written and wrapped up in paper and frosting.

She slipped on her shoes and made her way to Bellamy's.

When she arrived, Jon was already behind the counter, wiping it down with a cloth and humming softly to himself. He looked up and smiled as she entered.

"Morning," he greeted warmly.

Carina walked over, placing the small cake box down gently, followed by the sealed letter, the card, and finally, the book.

Jon's eyes flicked to the cake. "Looks good," he said with a grin, nodding in admiration. "You made this?"

Carina nodded, trying not to blush. "Just a small one. But I hope it's enough."

"It's perfect."

"Oh and can I pay for one hot chocolate? Extra marshmallows," she added, suddenly remembering.

"Of course. I'll make sure it's ready when she gets here," Jon assured her, reaching for the till as Carina pulled out her card.

She lingered for a moment longer than necessary, her eyes resting on the pile of pieces she was leaving behind. Her heart was in all of it.

"I just hope she comes in," Carina said softly.

"She will," Jon said confidently. "She always does. Especially lately."

Carina smiled, the smallest trace of nerves still lingering in her expression, but she nodded. "Thank you, Jon. Really."

"Anytime," he said, and with that, Carina turned and left, the bell above the door ringing out behind her.

Now, all that was left was to wait and hope that her words, her cake, her heart laid bare, wouldn't go unnoticed.

Chapter Text

Jon had always been a background figure in their story. Steady. Quiet. There when they needed a refill or a gentle smile but never one to impose. Maya had never thought of him as someone who watched people. But he had been watching them both from afar, and now, as he moved with intention behind the counter, he was doing so with purpose.

It was just after lunch when Jon spotted her on the street. Maya had her hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she was bracing against more than just the breeze. He moved quickly, almost reverently, placing the book at her usual table, its spine perfectly aligned with the edge. The letter and card sat atop it, carefully arranged. Next came the hot chocolate, piled high with marshmallows, and finally, the slice of cake. A slice that looked like it belonged in a window display more than his shop.

He stepped away as she pushed the door open.

Maya didn't see any of it at first. She entered like she always did, gaze down, movements distracted. Her shift had started early, and Vic, bless her persistent heart, had sent her home not long after.

"Company policy," Vic had said, nudging her toward the door. "You don't get to work on your birthday and pretend it's just another Tuesday. Go. Do something selfish."

Maya didn't tell her that being alone on her birthday wasn't selfish, it was normal.

But even normal felt too heavy today. So she came here to their place. And maybe, if she was lucky, Carina's letter would be waiting inside the book. Maybe, at the very end, there would be a small "Happy Birthday" scrawled. That would be more than enough. It would be everything.

But as she looked up, she froze.

The book was already there.

Not left behind. Not tucked into a shelf. It was placed. Like someone had chosen that spot just for her. And the letter wasn't folded inside, it was on top. A second envelope rested beside it. A cup of what could only be hot chocolate steamed beside a plate. And on that plate... a slice of cake.

Her name was written across it in icing.

Not "Happy Birthday," not a joke or a pun or something store-bought and impersonal. Just for her.

She stood still, unsure if she was allowed to move. Her eyes flicked around the shop. No sign of Carina. Her chest ached a little at that, but only because this, the book, the drink, the cake, it was Carina, it had to be.

Slowly, Maya stepped forward, as if afraid she might break the moment by moving too fast. Her fingers brushed the envelope with her name in soft handwriting. She picked it up gently. Then the card.

She sat down, her heart thudding.

The cake looked almost too pretty to eat. There were tiny flowers, delicate swirls of icing, and the script across the top, so careful, so considered. Her name, in sugar.

She reached for the hot chocolate and blinked when she noticed a tiny note attached to the napkin beneath it.

Extra marshmallows, because I heard you're the kind of person who secretly likes the overflow. C.

Maya laughed, quietly, a soft breath of joy that surprised even her.

Around her, the coffee shop continued on as normal. Conversations hummed, a bell rang at the door, someone typed on a laptop in the corner but Maya had paused in time.

Maya reached for the card first, hands careful, like it might slip through her fingers if she moved too fast. The envelope opened with a soft whisper, and she gently slid the card out.

Her smile came instantly at the sight of ellow flowers and bumblebees.

Of course it would be this. Bright, soft, buzzing with life, it was so Carina. Maya traced the little bees with her thumb before opening the card, already feeling that warm ache settling into her chest.

She read slowly.

Dear Maya,

Happy Birthday.
I don't know what birthdays have looked like for you in the past, but I hope this one feels a little bit like kindness. Like care. Like you're seen.

I thought a lot about what to write in here. The truth is, I don't know you in the way people usually do when they write cards, but I do know the way your words feel. And they've become a part of my days I genuinely look forward to. So this is just... a little piece of that feeling, returned to you.

In my culture, birthdays are often loud and messy and filled with food and family. But sometimes the quiet things say the most. So instead of noise, I offer you this, a slice of cake (homemade, of course), a cup of hot chocolate (I hear it's your favourite), and a wish for a year that holds softness in all the right places.

There's an old Italian poem I love. I thought of you when I read it last week.

"Ti porto dentro come il mare porta il sale, silenziosamente, sempre."
("I carry you the way the sea carries salt, silently, always.")

With love,
Carina

P.S. I had to guess on the cake, hopefully chocolate is a safe choice. If not, I'm willing to try again... and again. If you have a favourite, please let me know.

Maya's hand trembled slightly as she set the card down, open, on the table. Her vision blurred, eyes filling with tears she didn't bother to hide. There weren't many moments in her life that made her feel seen, not many at all but this one did, she felt more seen than ever before.

She hadn't want to ruin what they had. For all this time, the idea of meeting Carina had felt like something to avoid, like a risk too great. But in this moment, with this card, her name in icing, and a hot chocolate still steaming beside her, Maya wanted nothing more than to find Carina, to hug her so tightly that words weren't needed. To whisper thank you into her ear, over and over.

She wiped at her cheeks and gave a shaky laugh.

"Perfect," she whispered, voice barely audible even to herself. "You're perfect."

Her eyes drifted to the cake. Carina's cake.

The slice had been decorated with such intention, flowers piped delicately in the corners, her name scrolled with precision across the top. Maya took a forkful and brought it to her mouth.

The moan escaped before she could stop it.

It was good. Not just nice, not oh-that's-sweet good but honestly the best cake she had ever tasted good. Rich and soft and melt-in-your-mouth perfect. The kind of cake that had to be baked with love.

She took another bite. Then a third.

What else did Carina bake? Was this a special recipe? Did she bake like this often, or was this something she'd done just for her?

Could she ask for more?

The thought made her laugh softly, cheeks flushed with something that felt suspiciously like joy.

She didn't even notice Jon watching her from the counter, smiling into his own mug as he leaned back against the shelves. He'd seen a lot of people and birthdays pass through Bellamy's, but none quite like this. It was quiet and hopeful, but glowing.

But Maya didn't focus on him, she didn't even pass a glance in his direction because she couldn't focus on anything except the cake, the card, the drink warming her hands, and the undeniable truth that Carina had thought of every detail.

She hadn't even read the new letter yet, their usual back-and-forth, the heart of their strange, beautiful connection but already Maya knew.

This was the best birthday she had ever had.

Maya took a slow sip of her hot chocolate, letting the warmth settle deep in her chest as the sweetness from the cake lingered on her tongue. She gently set the mug down, eyes drifting to the letter resting beneath the card, their real exchange. The part of their connection that always made her feel grounded.

With hands steadier now, she unfolded it, the familiar curve of Carina's handwriting bringing a smile to her lips before she'd even read a word.

She began.

Dear Maya,

I'm so sorry you had such a terrible day. You didn't deserve that, none of it. I wish I could have been there, not just in ink, but in person. To listen and remind you it wasn't your fault. To make you tea and sit beside you until the world softened again. But I'm so glad that the book brought you comfort, that we did. Even from a distance, I want to be someone who shows up when it matters.

Maya swallowed hard.

She had felt Carina there that day, somehow, through her words, through the paper, but reading that now, seeing that Carina wanted to be there? To bring her tea and quiet? It pulled something deep and aching to the surface.

Even from a distance, I want to be someone who shows up when it matters.

She blinked away fresh tears.

Thank you for telling me about your birthday. August 5th. I hope you don't mind, but I've decided this year, you deserve to be celebrated. I know you said you've never had a cake before, and that made me ache in places I didn't expect. So, if it's okay... I made one.

Maya paused here, a laugh bubbling up between sniffles.

If it's okay.

She looked at the cake again, now slightly lopsided from where she'd already devoured half of it.

It was more than okay. It was perfect.

The bit that reminds you joy can be soft and sweet and shared.

Maya reread that line twice.

It wasn't just cake. It was joy, wrapped in icing and effort. Carina's effort for her.

Christmas will be different for me now too, I hope I learn to enjoy the quieter version, whether I spend it alone or with someone. Maybe next year, it'll feel different for both of us.

That was the first time Maya let herself imagine next year. And not in a hypothetical, someday kind of way but in a shared kind of way.

Maybe next year, they wouldn't be strangers on opposite sides of a book.

Maybe they could be more.

Your truth didn't change how I see you, not at all. If anything, it made everything more clear.

That line stopped Maya cold. She read it again and then again. The weight of her secret, the years spent fearing rejection, disappeared just a little more with every loop of Carina's ink.

You make me feel seen.

Maya pressed her palm over her heart. You too, she thought. You, especially.

You're allowed to want more.

She felt that one deep in her bones. Carina didn't just believe in her, she expected her to chase something better. Not for anyone else. Just for herself.

Maya had spent her life surviving, but maybe she was allowed to live too.

English gave me you.

Maya choked on a laugh, stunned by how something so simple could feel so profound. She traced that line with her finger like she might lose it otherwise.

You were surprisingly accurate, by the way. I am brunette, my accent is most definitely still there.

Maya grinned, heart fluttering wildly.

So she had been right. There was a voice behind the letters and a face behind the words. She wasn't just building a fantasy, Carina was real.

And now she had a smile to picture, even if it wasn't fully described.

And Maya... I've kept all your letters too. Every single one.

Maya's hands curled slightly around the page.

So it wasn't just her. She wasn't the only one who tucked those pages away like sacred things.

Carina read them too. Needed them too.

But I'm here, Maya. In the margins. In between the lines. With you.

By the time she reached the end, Maya could barely see the words.

She pressed the letter to her chest, her heart hammering, her whole body vibrating with the softest kind of joy. The kind she hadn't known existed. The kind that didn't scream or demand, but simply was.

Carina was here, with her, in every word, in the cake, in the card and like always, in the margins.

Maya couldn't wait to read more. She was practically breathing Carina at this point, her scent imagined in flour and ink, her voice conjured in every sentence, every loop of handwritten script. Her entire heart was beating for this woman she hadn't even met. Not in the traditional sense of how a heart actually and medically beats, but here she was on her birthday with cake, hot chocolate, a card that made her cry.

Carina had done this for her. It was the best birthday Maya had ever had without question.

She let her fingertips slide back over the pages of their shared book, the edges soft now from so much handling, the spine giving just enough to tell her this book had lived. And now it held them, line by line, letter by letter, note by note.

Maya flipped to chapter seven.

She'd only left two notes there, but they were honest, vulnerable. It had been a chapter that clung to her, that reflected too many quiet truths she hadn't had the courage to say aloud.

Her first note had been beside the quote:
"We carry the people we care about, even when they're not near. Sometimes, especially then."

She had written:
-I carry you with me, even when I try not to. Especially when I try not to. You've become a kind of comfort I never expected, threaded through thoughts, through hours, through everything.-

Maya had meant every word.

Carina had responded.

-I think I started carrying you before I even realised it. You're in my mornings, in my coffee, in the way I glance at the bookshop window like I'm hoping you'll walk by. You're the voice I imagine when I need steadiness. I didn't mean to carry you but now I don't know how to let go. And maybe I don't want to.-

Maya read it slowly, carefully, her heart trembling.

Then below it, in smaller, softer handwriting, almost shy:

-If I'm comfort for you, even a little... then maybe this matters more than either of us planned.-

Her breath caught.

She didn't know if her smile could grow any wider, but it did. Her face actually hurt from how much she was smiling. Carina looked for her, she imagined her, sometimes needed her but most importantly, she didn't want to let go and neither did Maya.

Maya wanted to hold onto that sentence forever. Wanted to press it against her chest and carry it like a secret charm because Carina was her comfort too.

On good days, she was the first person Maya wanted to tell. On bad days, she was the place Maya wanted to run. She meant so much to her, so much more than Maya had planned and more than she had allowed herself to hope for.

And she hoped, so deeply that Carina felt the same.

She kept reading, flipping gently to the next margin-marked quote:

"Some of us grow from cracks in the pavement, and bloom anyway."

Maya's note was one she'd hesitated over when writing:

-I was raised in a house that taught me strength was silence, and perfection was the only way to be loved. But I grew anyway. I found softness in myself that I wasn't taught. Then I found you, in the quiet, in the cracks, and somehow, that makes me believe I can keep blooming.-

Even rereading her own words made her throat tighten. It was still hard to say those things out loud, but putting them on the page, writing them with Carina had felt safe.

Carina's reply was immediate, like something she was certain about,

-You should be loved not for who they told you to be, but for exactly who you are. I do. I'm so grateful we found each other in the cracks. You bloom in ways that make me believe I can too.-

Just beneath the words, a small daisy had been sketched in ink. It had delicate petals that were slightly open, it felt brave.

Maya's finger traced over it, her touch instinctual, reverent. That single, drawn flower made her ache.

But more importantly, Carina loved her for who she was. Not the polished version Maya had been trained to present or the perfect shell. But her, just her.

And maybe... just maybe, Maya could learn to believe it. To believe she was worthy of that kind of love because Carina already did.

Maya sat back in the chair, the last bite of cake finished, the hot chocolate long gone and now only a warm memory in her chest. The book lay open before her, the card still standing, the letter still gripped lightly in her hand.

Without even thinking, Maya turned to chapter eight. She craved more, more of Carina, more of her words and more of the connection that now lived not just in margins and paper, but in Maya's chest, in every slow inhale, every heartbeat that whispered her name.

She hoped Carina wouldn't only respond in this chapter, but lead. She wanted to see where Carina's thoughts began, what lines had made her pause, what truths she'd felt brave enough to share first.

It didn't take long for Maya to find it.

The first quote underlined was one Maya could have also selected for herself.

"Maybe home isn't a place. Maybe it's the person who makes you feel safe enough to be soft."

Carina had written beside it:

-I left my "home," a country, a name, a version of myself behind, hoping to find the true version of me. You, Bellamy's, our book... might be the first thing that's made me feel like I might have found it.-

Maya stared at the words, her fingers curling lightly at the edge of the page. Carina had left behind a version of herself and somehow, in a bookshop, between shelves and pages and the warmth of a shared book, she had found something resembling home. A home in Maya.

Maya could related but differently because she wasn't sure she had ever had a home. Not truly. Not as a child, where silence and fear lived in the walls. Not as an adult, where she built perfection like armour and mistook safety for belonging. She had an apartment now, a quiet and safe space to rest her head, but a home?

She pressed her pen lightly to the margin and replied:

-I'm not sure I've ever had a home, not in the way that feels like what people describe. But reading this... maybe it's not about walls or cities or roots. Maybe it's about feeling safe in yourself and with someone, the people you surround yourself with. If that's true, then maybe I'm closer than I thought and maybe you're part of that.-

Her eyes moved to the next highlighted quote:
"Love doesn't always arrive as a grand declaration. Sometimes, it's a steady presence."

Carina's response was simple, almost poetic,

-I think I've always looked for love in the little things. In the quiet. In a well-pulled espresso on a tired morning, in the rush of air before a wave kisses the shore.-

Maya smiled, warmth blooming under her skin. Of course Carina found love in the quiet. That made so much sense. Maya felt that too, the beauty in the smallest gestures, the comfort in something simple.

She picked up her pen and answered beneath:

-It's always been the little things for me too. A smile held a second too long, someone remembering how you take your coffee. But the little thing that's brought me the most joy lately? A note in a margin or a letter from you, it brings me joy every time.-

She lingered there for a second, her finger tapping the page as she read the lines again, lips twitching into a soft, unguarded smile.

Then she found the final quote, tucked at the very end of the chapter:

"Maybe we never really know someone. Maybe we just come to understand the version of them they're ready to let us see."

Carina had written:

-I used to think I knew exactly what love should look like, but now... I'm not sure. I think I'm still figuring it out, what I feel and what I need, what's real. Maybe love isn't a picture I can carry in my head. Maybe it's something that unfolds gently and quietly.-

Maya stilled and her breath hitched just slightly. Was Carina talking about this? About them? This slow, unfolding thing they had built? Her heart thudded.

She wanted to believe it. To believe that Carina felt a fraction of what she did and that this wasn't just a beautiful, poetic connection, but something real. Something with roots, something with possibility.

She knew now that Carina was queer in some way, she had shared that and she'd said Maya made her feel seen, had admitted to carrying her. But still, Maya didn't know how far that feeling stretched. Did Carina imagine more? Or was Maya simply a soft place in a hard world?

She tried to find her own honesty as she picked up her pen again:

-I don't know what love looks like. I've never been taught, never really felt it, not the real kind anyway, everything I think I know comes from books, or from stories like this one. But I hope one day I get to feel it for myself and not just imagine it. I so want more than to just read it.-

She paused, then added, a little smaller:

- And if love really does unfold gently and quietly... I hope it looks a little like this.-

Maya stared at the page for a long while, her throat thick, her chest aching in the way it does when something beautiful and terrifying and hopeful sits too close to the heart.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself feel it. This connection, the possibility, the unfolding of this story, their story. And maybe, just maybe... she wasn't so far from love after all.

Chapter nine felt different, maybe it was because of the letter, or maybe it was the cake. Maybe it was that Carina had underlined less this time, like she was passing the pen to Maya and Maya took it.

This chapter, this book, it wasn't easy. It didn't wrap things in bows. It made you dig, sit in the messiness, and find meaning in the wilderness of it all. It made you notice the things no one else stopped to see. And for Maya, that had always been part of who she was, watching the world from the edges, searching for something steady.

The first quote she highlighted read:

"I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too."

Maya let the words sink in. The rawness and the truth of it.

She wrote in the margin:

-I've never read something that felt more like the inside of me. I've survived things I still don't know how to speak about. Some days I feel torn, threadbare, like my edges are all unraveling.-

She didn't often admit that. Not out loud. Not even to herself. But this quote, on this page, it didn't ask for perfection. Just presence, maybe survival like that was enough.

The next quote she lingered on was softer, but no less profound:

"Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery."

She stared at the line for a long time. It reminded her of the feeling she had when she and Carina wrote to each other. The way those exchanges had changed her like the faintest touch of something unknown but deeply felt.

Maya added:

-Sometimes I wonder if that's what we're doing, tracing something bigger, something just out of view. Maybe what's between us is part of that mystery. But it's real, can I feel it even in silence, in paper and ink.-

A third quote pulled her in like a tide:

"We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence... 'seemings' and 'evidences'."

She underlined it, then wrote:

-I think I lived most of my life half-asleep. Just... existing. Chasing success and silence because it felt safe. But this? writing with you, feeling something, maybe this is what waking up feels like.-

She paused, her thumb running down the side of the page, grounding herself.

Maya had never felt this way before. Not just seen but reflected. This book, this chapter, these words, they weren't just philosophy, they were becoming pieces of her own map, of her own journey.

She found one final quote, delicate and tucked near the bottom:

"The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand."

Maya smiled faintly.

A quiet kind of hope.

-Maybe you're one of mine. A moment of beauty dropped into the chaos. A reminder that not everything has to hurt to matter.-

She closed the book gently, like it was fragile now, almost sacred.

Because it was, because she was.

And because maybe, just maybe, what they were building here, quietly, in margins and metaphor and handwritten truths was worth more than all the noise in the world.

Dear Carina,

I wished you were there too. On the hard days, absolutely. But also today, especially today because it was good, not just good but really, really good. I haven't had many days like that before, so when they come, I want to share them with someone and I wanted that someone to be you.

Thank you for everything.
The card, the cake, the hot chocolate with way too many marshmallows (you were absolutely right, there is no such thing as too many). Thank you for not just remembering my birthday, but for celebrating it and for showing up for me in a way no one else ever has. You made today something I'll carry with me forever.

When I walked into Bellamy's, I was bracing myself. I'd half-hoped, half-doubted that you'd left even a "happy birthday" scribbled within your letter. That alone would've meant the world. But I still don't have the words for what that did to me. How did you even know where I sat? How do you always know?

The cake, by the way... dangerous. Beautifully, ridiculously dangerous. I wasn't just flattered, it was honestly the best thing I've ever eaten. It made me wonder: do you bake often? Is it just cake? Or are there other delights I should be worried (and excited) about? Because I think I'd follow the scent of your pastries anywhere and I'm pretty sure that's a safety hazard.

Christmas... I don't think I've ever really done it properly either. My dad didn't believe in holidays, he didn't believe in slowing down or showing love in obvious ways at any time of the year so said the holidays shouldn't be an excuse. I remember going back to school in January and pretending I got gifts I didn't, saw lights I hadn't, ate food we didn't have. Eventually, I stopped pretending, I stopped hoping. But I do have this quiet little list in my head, traditions I've seen in films or read about. Things I'd love to do one day when I have someone or maybe when I have a family of my own. I'd like to believe I'll get it and if I do... I'd like to make it soft and warm and full of cake and fairy lights and real laughter. Maybe one day, that's a version of Christmas we could both have.

You said my truth didn't change anything and Carina, I can't explain what it means to hear that. I don't tell people often. Not because I'm ashamed, because I'm not but because I've never really had anyone to tell. But you... I want you to know all of me. You make me feel like I don't have to shrink or translate who I am.

And please don't ever wish to be any other version of yourself. The one you are, right now, reading this, is perfect. You don't need to hide with me, not your queerness or your softness. Not your silence either, I want all of it without hesitation. I promise to offer the same back, always.

I've wanted to hug you so many times. Today especially. When I saw that cake and the card, I had to sit down because I was so overwhelmed. I didn't even know what I was feeling. I think I needed that kind of hug that doesn't need words. The kind that says 'You're safe now, You're loved'

And I'm thinking about taking the leap. Signing up for the classes, it's just a few evenings a week but it terrifies me. What if I can't do it? What if I let myself believe and I fail? I'm trying to be brave because I want to be. Especially because I know you're proud of me already... I just don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you.

You said English gave you books and gave you me. That... stopped me in my tracks. I keep rereading that line. I'd go to the coast with you in a heartbeat. I know of places, tiny English seaside towns with crooked bookshops and pebbled beaches. I'd love to show you those but I think my favourite part would be seeing them with you. I think they'd feel different through your eyes.

Also I pictured you exactly like that. I bet the accent's just as I imagined too. I think, if we ever read together, out loud, page by page, you should start. I want to hear how you sound. I want to get lost in the way you speak the words we both love.

And I'm glad you kept my letters, I really am. I kept yours too, all of them. I don't always reread the whole thing, but I do return to favourite lines, yours always give me something to hold on to.

I don't want to stop writing either, or reading. This, us, it feels like the most honest, steady thing I've ever had so don't worry, Carina. I'm here for as long as you are.

Thank you again for making today something beautiful. No one has ever made me feel as seen, or as loved, as you did. You'll always be special to me and I'll be here.

With you.
In the margins.
Between the lines.
Wherever you are.

Always,
Maya

Chapter Text

Carina poked absently at her salad, the fork slipping between a slice of tomato and a cluster of lettuce she had no real intention of eating. Across from her, Amelia watched her with a knowing look, one brow arched as she sipped her iced tea.

"So," Amelia said, setting her glass down with a soft clink, "how did it go yesterday?"

Carina blinked up at her. "Yesterday?"

Amelia smiled gently. "Maya's birthday."

"Oh," Carina exhale, a small, nervous laugh tumbling out. "I... I left the card and the cake, I went with chocolate like you suggested. Paid for a hot chocolate with too many marshmallows and of course I returned the book and the letter."

"And?" Amelia prompted, voice softening. "Did she get it?"

Carina's eyes dropped to her plate again, she shook her head once. "I don't know, I didn't go back. I almost did, I got halfway down the block before I turned around. I wanted to ask Jon if she came in, if she smiled, if she read it. But... I couldn't."

"Why not?"

Carina twisted her napkin in her lap, fidgeting with the edge. "Because if the answer wasn't what I hoped... I didn't want it to ruin the version of her birthday I had in my head. The one where she walked in, saw the cake and card, read the letter and knew, just knew, how much she mattered to me. Even if we've never met."

Amelia reached across the table, her fingers brushing Carina's wrist in quiet reassurance. "You really like her."

Carina nodded. "I think I'm falling for her," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't even know what she looks or sounds like. Isn't that insane?"

Amelia smiled. "A little, but also sounds kind of magical, falling in love with a person, not an initial attraction."

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes before Amelia asked, "Do you want me to come with you? Today, I mean, when you go back?"

Carina hesitated. The offer was kind, generous even, and she could see the worry in Amelia's eyes, how Amelia didn't like the idea of her finding out alone, whether the response was good or... less than. But Carina knew the answer before she even opened her mouth.

"I think I need to go alone," she said softly. "It's always been just me, just us, in our little world between the pages. I don't want that to change. I think if this ends, if this was the last letter or if Maya didn't come in, I don't know if I want anyone else to see what that does to me."

Amelia nodded, understanding. "Okay. But if it's good, if it's everything you hope it is, you'll tell me?"

A small, hopeful smile tugged at Carina's lips. "If it's good, I won't be able to shut up about it."

They finished dinner slowly, neither in a rush to go home despite it being a long day. When they hugged goodbye outside the café, Amelia held her a little longer than usual.

"Whatever happens," she murmured, "you did a beautiful thing, Carina. You made someone feel seen."

Carina nodded, heart fluttering. She slipped her coat on, took a deep breath, and began the walk to Bellamy's. Her bag felt heavier today, not from anything inside, but from the hope tucked carefully between every step.

The familiar bell above the door chimed softly as Carina stepped into Bellamy's. Her eyes scanned the café automatically, searching for Jon behind the counter but he wasn't there. Her heart dipped slightly, she had hoped to ask before looking. She almost wanted to prepare herself, to know whether to brace or to breathe.

But with no one to offer that moment of comfort, she turned toward the back shelf, the one that had become theirs. Her hand hovered for a moment, fingertips brushing the well-worn spines before landing on their book. It was still there. Just like always.

Carina exhaled and let her fingers trace the edge of the cover like it was something sacred. And maybe it was, maybe they both were. The moment she lifted the book from the shelf, an envelope fluttered from between the pages and landed softly at her feet.

Her heart caught. She knelt, breath held, and picked it up.

Her name, Carina was looped carefully in Maya's handwriting across the front. She smiled, her whole body relaxing into the curve of it. Maya had been here and had written back.

As Carina moved to her usual seat, letter clutched carefully in her hand, Jon appeared at her side with quiet precision. He placed an espresso down with the kind of silent understanding only someone who lived among books and readers could manage. Alongside the espresso, he set a plate down. On it, a slice of her cake.

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering in her chest. Did this mean...

"She wanted to share it with you," Jon said gently, answering before she could ask. "She took it all, except for this slice."

Carina blinked up at him, stunned.

"She said..." He hesitated, then smiled. "Well, she said she couldn't finish celebrating without you."

The smile that bloomed on Carina's face was soft, almost disbelieving. Maya had wanted to share it with her. The ache in her chest dissolved into something gentler, something warm.

"Oh, and the coffee's on her," Jon added with a nod to the table. "Check the napkin."

Carina looked down, heart full, and saw the folded napkin beneath the cup. Her fingers unfolded it with care, revealing Maya's words, written in the same familiar hand:

To the only person I want to share my birthday with,
Thank you.
Please celebrate with me by enjoying a slice of the best cake I've ever tasted.
P.S. Chocolate for the win, but I think I'd eat anything you made me.

Carina closed her eyes for just a moment, overwhelmed with emotion, before resting her fingers on the edge of the plate.

She didn't know what she'd expected when she walked in today but it hadn't been this. This joy or the quiet certainty that the feelings growing between them weren't one-sided. This gift of being known, remembered, wanted.

She smiled as she lifted the fork.

To the only person I want to share my birthday with.

The words stayed with her, sweeter than the cake, more comforting than the espresso.

And as she took the first bite, Carina swore she could taste every letter, every smile, every piece of connection they'd written into the margins.

Carina unfolded the letter with a reverence usually reserved for holy things. And maybe this was holy in its own way, tender, honest, sacred in its vulnerability. Her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed the pages out on the table and began to read, the familiar curves of Maya's handwriting already making her chest tighten.

Dear Carina,
I wished you were there too. On the hard days, absolutely. But also today, especially today because it was good, not just good but really, really good...

Carina's throat caught. God, she wanted to have been there. To have seen Maya's face light up and to have watched her read the card, taste the cake, smile at the marshmallows. That Maya wanted her there not just in sorrow, but in joy, especially in joy, undid her.

Thank you for everything...

Carina covered her mouth as she read. The gratitude in Maya's words wasn't heavy, it was light and warm and full of wonder, like Maya still couldn't believe someone had done those things for her. She should always be celebrated, Carina thought. She should always be held in moments like that.

When I walked into Bellamy's, I was bracing myself...

That part made her laugh softly. She could picture Maya's face, cautious, maybe unsure and then the moment everything softened. How did you even know where I sat? Carina blinked back a tear. But it made sense, didn't it? Of course Maya would have a favourite spot, a place she returned to, they both did. Maybe that's what this was too, something they kept returning to.

The cake, by the way... dangerous.

Carina grinned and took another bite. The way Maya turned praise into something funny and sweet made her stomach flutter. I think I'd follow the scent of your pastries anywhere. The laugh bubbled from her chest before she could stop it, absurdly happy. Please do, she thought. Please follow them right to me.

Christmas...

That part stole her breath. The quiet pain in Maya's words, the years of pretending, of not fitting in made Carina ache. But it was the next part, the dreaming, that rooted her in place. A list in her head. Fairy lights, cake and real laughter. Carina's eyes burned. Yes, she thought, we could make that Christmas. We could build it from scratch, string it with light and softness and second chances.

I want you to know all of me...

She pressed her hand to her chest, the letter curling beneath her other fingers. The words, You are perfect, you don't need to hide with me
slid beneath her like sunlight. No one had ever said that to her. Not like this, not with so much truth and no expectation.

I've wanted to hug you so many times...

That made her cry, there was no stopping it now. A tear slipped silently down her cheek as she imagined Maya sitting alone at that table, overwhelmed, touched, needing to be held and thinking of her. A kind of hug that says "you're safe now." That's what she wanted too, to be that place for Maya, to be the safety and the warmth.

I'm thinking about taking the leap...

Carina wanted to reach into the letter and hold Maya's hand. Take the leap, she whispered in her head. And if you fall, I'll be right there. I won't let you hit the ground alone.

I'd go to the coast with you in a heartbeat...

She smiled through tears. Maya wanted to go, to show her bookshops and crooked streets and let her see the world through her eyes. It made something hopeful unfurl in Carina's chest. Like maybe there was a place for them beyond these pages. Maybe this wasn't just fantasy or escape. Maybe it was the beginning.

I want to hear how you sound...

Carina laughed softly, wiping her cheek again. She could imagine it, reading to Maya. Her voice falling into rhythm beside Maya's, their words overlapping, shared and steady. I want that too, she thought. More than anything.

I'm here for as long as you are...

That was it. That line that grounded her completely. Not just the letter, but this, whatever this was, was real, it was mutual and it was enough to carry her through anything.

By the time she reached the last words

With you.
In the margins.
Between the lines.
Wherever you are.

Always,
Maya

Carina was holding the letter to her chest, closing her eyes.

Maya.

She was more than just a name now. She was possibility, a future. Someone who had cracked Carina open gently, patiently, until there was nothing left but truth.

Carina reached for her phone, thumbs shaking slightly as she typed out the only message she had space for in this moment of full, bursting-heart clarity.

Text to Amelia:
Better than I could have ever imagined.
See you at home.
I have so much to tell you.

Carina hadn't even sat back down before the need to know more became too loud to ignore.

She tucked Maya's letter carefully back into the envelope and slid it into her coat pocket like it was something precious, and it was. But before she returned to their book, before she opened to the underlined pages and spilled her own thoughts into the margins, she turned toward the counter and sought out Jon.

He was behind the till again now, drying glasses with a dish towel, humming faintly to himself.

"Jon?" she asked softly, hesitant.

He looked up immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting when he saw her expression. "Hey, Carina. Everything okay?"

She nodded, then shook her head with a small, self-conscious laugh. "Yes. I mean, better than okay. I just... I wanted to ask. Did you... see Maya come in yesterday?"

Jon smiled, and the warmth in it made Carina's chest tighten. "I did."

Her breath caught in her throat. "And?"

He stepped closer to the counter, like he knew this wasn't a throwaway question. "She walked in and just... stopped. Like she'd stepped into another world. I don't think she even blinked at first. Just stood there, staring at the table."

Carina's eyes brimmed again just hearing it.

"She looked at the card first," Jon went on gently. "Opened it right there, barely even sat down. Then the cake, the napkin... I think she read every word like they were the most important words in the world. She smiled, god she smiled more than I've ever seen her smile and then she cried, they were happy tears. It was like nothing could touch her in that moment. Like nothing else existed."

Carina's hand came to her own cheek, pressing lightly against the fallen tears.

Jon wiped his hands on the towel, then leaned his elbows on the counter, voice dropping a little. "I've known Maya for almost ten years. She's been coming here since she was barely twenty. Always polite. Always quiet. Always tucked into the corner like she was trying to disappear into the woodwork. But lately... she's different."

"Different how?" Carina asked, barely above a whisper.

"She smiles now," Jon said, simple and sure. "Like she really smiles, she's got a reason to and she looks up when the bell over the door rings. Looks around like maybe, just maybe, someone she's hoping for might walk in."

Carina swallowed hard. Was Maya waiting for her?

"She reads your letters like they're scripture," he continued. "Sometimes she cries, sometimes she laughs. But she always leaves with the letter in her coat pocket like it's something she needs to keep close. She leaves lighter. And Carina, I've watched her for a long time... but I've never seen her look the way she does now."

Carina blinked fast, overwhelmed. "Thank you," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I didn't know if it mattered that much. I didn't know if I was... too much."

Jon chuckled gently. "You're not too much. You're exactly what she needed. I don't think she knew just how much until you showed up."

And with that, Carina returned to the table feeling steadier than she had in days. Maya had seen her, felt her. And Carina? She wasn't just in the margins anymore.

Carina turned slowly to chapter eight, her fingers brushing the familiar paper with reverence. She remembered the ache in her chest when she wrote in these margins, how she had poured herself into the lines hoping Maya would read them, hoping Maya would feel them. Now, sitting here with Maya's letter safe in her coat pocket and Jon's words still echoing in her ears, she was ready to find out if Maya had responded.

The first passage she came to was the one she had underlined beside the words "Maybe home isn't a place."

Carina's own note had been a confession. That leaving Italy meant leaving behind not just a place, but a version of herself. That for the first time, this, these shared pages, Maya's voice, the tender exchange between two strangers, felt like home.

Maya had written just beneath in her steady, soft script:

-I'm not sure I've ever had a home, not in the way that feels like what people describe. But reading this... maybe it's not about walls or cities or roots. Maybe it's about feeling safe in yourself and with someone, the people you surround yourself with. If that's true, then maybe I'm closer than I thought and maybe you're part of that.-

Her eyes stung. She re-read the line over and over, fingers pressed lightly to the edge of the page like she could hold the words more tightly if she touched them. Was Maya telling her what she thought she was? That this, they, were something that made her feel safe? That she saw Carina as part of her becoming, her healing, her home?

Maybe you're part of that.

Carina closed her eyes for a moment and let the warmth of it sink in. She had wanted to be part of that. She hadn't let herself hope, until now.

She turned the page.

The second quote was one about love's quiet presence.

Carina had written about how she always looked for love in the small things, the warmth of a mug against tired hands, the hush before a wave broke, the stillness of being seen.

Beneath it, Maya had responded:

-It's always been the little things for me too. A smile held a second too long, someone remembering how you take your coffee. But the little thing that's brought me the most joy lately? A note in a margin or a letter from you, it brings me joy every time.-

Carina smiled softly, her thumb brushing against Maya's words. This time, it wasn't uncertainty that filled her but something closer to awe. She could feel it in Maya's reply. A thread of something real. Love, not in grand declarations, but in the quiet joy of knowing someone had thought of you, written to you, left behind a piece of themselves for you to find.

And then there was the final quote. The one Carina had been nervous to return to.

"Maybe we never really know someone..." it began.

Carina had written vulnerably here. That maybe love wasn't the picture-perfect vision she'd been raised to believe in. That maybe love was something softer or maybe slower. Something that unfolded.

Maya had responded:

-I don't know what love looks like. I've never been taught, never really felt it, not the real kind anyway, everything I think I know comes from books, or from stories like this one. But I hope one day I get to feel it for myself and not just imagine it. I so want more than to just read it. And if love really does unfold gently and quietly... I hope it looks a little like this.-

Carina's chest ached in the best way.

I hope it looks a little like this.

Her thumb grazed over those last words like they might disappear if she blinked. It felt like an answer. Like Maya was reaching back through the pages with as much care and hope as Carina had sent out.

Could Maya feel it too? The slow pull of something deeper? Could she be falling, the same way Carina had found herself falling, so gradually but so certainly, without ever having heard her voice or touched her hand?

Carina didn't know for sure but hoped Maya's notes in chapter 9 might give her a clearer insight.

Turning the page to chapter nine, Carina felt the now-familiar thrum of anticipation in her chest. Maya had continued their conversation, their quiet rhythm of hearts on paper. Her eyes were drawn instantly to the first margin, where Maya had underlined:

"I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too."

Just beneath, Maya had written:

I've never read something that felt more like the inside of me. I've survived things I still don't know how to speak about. Some days I feel torn, threadbare, like my edges are all unraveling.

Carina exhaled slowly. There was such raw vulnerability in those words, and yet such strength. Maya, even frayed, was still here. Still writing. Still loving in her quiet way. Carina reached for her pen and responded simply,

-You are perfect as you are. Frayed, threadbare, soft, strong, you are already everything.-

She paused as her eyes caught a quote Maya had not marked:

"The world is more often re-made by fire and flood than by careful design."

But now, thinking of Maya's words about surviving, about the way life had pulled and tested her, she added her own thought:

-You've lived through floods and still found a way to bloom. That's not weakness, that's everything.-

She moved to the next note.

"Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery."

Maya had written:

-Sometimes I wonder if that's what we're doing, if we are tracing something bigger, something just out of view. Maybe what's between us is part of that mystery. But it's real, I can feel it, even in silence, in paper and ink.-

Carina pressed her hand over her heart. Yes, she thought. Yes, I feel it too. This, whatever this was, was no longer a quiet game of underlined thoughts or poetic confessions left safely between pages. This was something real. Something bigger.

She replied: -I feel you too, Maya. Deeply, in the quiet. In the space between thoughts. You live there now. This is real and I don't want to let it go.-

The next margin held another echo of Maya's growing awareness:

"We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence... 'seemings' and 'evidences'."

Maya had written:

-I think I lived most of my life half-asleep. Just... existing. Chasing success and silence because it felt safe. But this? Writing with you, feeling something? Maybe this is what waking up feels like.-

Carina closed her eyes for a moment. That feeling of waking slowly into something tender and true, it mirrored her own. Yet part of it still felt dreamlike, unreal, as if one blink could scatter the magic. She responded honestly:

-Sometimes I wonder if we're still half-asleep. Like passing ships, like dreams slipping through our fingers. I hope one day I open my eyes and you're in front of me. I hope the image in my mind is comparable to the real you.-

Then came the last quote, one Maya had saved for the end of the chapter, as if she'd been waiting to say something bold too:

"The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand."

Maya had written:

-Maybe you're one of mine. A moment of beauty dropped into the chaos. A reminder that not everything has to hurt to matter.-

Carina's breath hitched. She read it again, feeling the gravity behind it, the hope, the offer, the quiet vulnerability of someone admitting that she had found something so precious and didn't want to lose it.

She didn't hesitate. Beneath it, she wrote,

-I'll be yours, if you'll be mine.-

And she meant it. Every word. Not just the penny, not just the page but everything.

Carina turned the page to chapter ten, her fingers trembling slightly, the weight of what she had just read from Maya still lingering like a torch against her skin. Her heart was full, almost overflowing and yet, there was still so much she wanted to say. So much she hadn't yet found the words for.

She let her eyes scan the lines of the next chapter, not just reading now but searching. Searching for something that could carry the weight of what she felt for Maya not just what she felt within. Something that could hold the truth without fear. Without needing to be dressed up in metaphor.

And then she found it.

"Love is the world's sweetest yes."

Carina smiled softly, tracing the sentence with her fingertip before uncapping her pen. She didn't hesitate as she wrote in the margin:

-That's what this feels like, every word, every page, every time I find your handwriting beside mine. It feels like saying yes to something I didn't even know I needed. Maybe yes to you, to us.-

She sat back, took a breath, and let herself feel the truth of it settle in her bones. Because that's what it was. A yes. A steady, quiet, resounding yes to anything and everything with Maya.

Further down, her eyes caught another line that stopped her heart a little.

"We are here to witness the miracle, to name it when we see it, to love it while it's here."

Her breath caught. Yes, this. Exactly this. In the margin, she wrote:

-I think this, you, might be my miracle. I don't know what happens next, if we meet or what we become. But I see it, I see you and I love it, I love what we have, what we share, while it's here.-

She closed the book for a moment, holding it to her chest. It had been just a book once. Now, it was her most sacred space.

Carina whispered softly, as if Maya might somehow hear her across the city, "You're my yes, Maya."

Carina was ready to run home, to tell Amelia everything but first she had to write to Maya, and that would always be more important. She couldn't imagine walking out without leaving a piece of her behind for Maya to find. So she reached into her satchel and pulled out the stationary reserved only for Maya.

Dear Maya,

I wish I had been there too. For all of it, the good and the bad. The kind of bad that makes your bones ache and the kind of good that makes you glow from the inside out. I wish you were there for mine too, the days where I feel sick, or tired, or sad without knowing why. The days something small goes right and I want someone to tell. I want you for all of them, Maya. Every single one.

Please don't thank me for the cake or the card or the hot chocolate that maybe had a marshmallow or six too many. I did it because I wanted to. Because you deserve to be celebrated in ways that are real and soft and full of sugar and sincerity. If even a flicker of a smile crossed your face, then that's more than I could have hoped for. But if I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to be your smile someday too, and maybe on your next birthday, I'll sit beside you and drink an overly sweetened hot chocolate with you too.

You asked how I always know. Maya, you are worth more than any scribbled birthday note. You're worth everything. Every cake, every drink, every second I've spent searching for the right words. I wish more than anything that you saw yourself the way I see you. I'm sorry if no one's ever shown you before. But I promise you, I will. For as long as you'll let me.

And that cake? I laughed when I read your note. It's an old Italian family recipe, one we save for birthdays and the celebrations that matter. You made it matter. And yes, I bake and I cook. Tiramisu, crostata, pastas, pastries... anything that fills a house with warmth. Tell me what you like. What you crave. Do you cook too? What's your favourite comfort food? Favourite dessert? I want to know everything.

Christmas was always full of lights and decorations and music, but it never felt like joy. It was performance, never presence. I remember begging to go ice skating and when we finally did, it was five minutes, one photo, and we were gone. Just enough to show we had but I want more than that now. I want to drive through sleepy neighbourhoods, see windows lit up with wonder. I want a tree that smells like pine and crooked ornaments that have stories behind them. I want a kitchen filled with cinnamon and laughter and glasses of wine. Maybe we can share our lists, maybe one day we can even tick them off together.

Maya, I want to know all of you. The sharp edges, the soft corners, the stories that hurt and the ones that heal. I think there's far more good in you than bad, and I'd take every part without hesitation. Thank you for seeing me, really seeing me. You said you want to give without hesitation, and so do I, always.

The truth is, I left Italy not just for work, but because my life there had already been written for me. Arranged marriages are still very real in my family, the expectations come dressed as love. I didn't want to live someone else's life and I didn't want to marry a stranger for the sake of culture. I asked for the transfer, I left because I wanted more. I just never expected that "more" might be waiting for me inside a bookstore.

If we ever meet, I promise you the first thing I will do is hug you. A long, quiet hug. The kind that speaks all the words our letters couldn't, or the words we are too scared to say. The kind that says, I see you, you're safe, you're loved.

Take the leap, Maya. I know it's terrifying but a little fear is better than a lifetime of regret. What if you can do it? What if you fly? And if you don't, if it doesn't work out, then I'll still be here. With you, no matter what. You are lovable even when you lose and that will never change, not to me.

So... the English seaside is officially on our someday vacation list. I've already started dreaming about it, about quiet bookshops and windswept beaches with coffee or hot chocolate in mismatched mugs. I think I might be a lot in person, too loud, expressive, too passionate sometimes but I hope that's not too much for you. I hope you'll still want me, even with all my volume and my warmth.

I will absolutely read the first page aloud, but only if you promise to read the second. I imagine us in the corner of Bellamy's, your hot chocolate in front of you, my espresso in mine. We'd take turns reading, the sound of your voice already etched in my imagination. It wouldn't be awkward. It would be us, it would be our own magic.

I will never part with your letters, Maya, not ever. Even if I return to Italy, though, if I'm honest, I don't want to, and don't plan too, I'll carry your words with me. Your handwriting feels like home. I have favourite lines, but the truth is... anything you write could be my favourite. Because you're my favourite.

And no, I don't want to stop either. Not the writing, not the reading, not this.

You are seen. You are loved. And you are so special to me, Maya. I'm staying too.

With you.
In the margins.
Between the lines.
Wherever you are.

Always,
Carina

Carina folded Maya's letter with the gentleness of something sacred, her fingertips lingering for a beat too long on the final line:

With you, in the margins, between the lines, wherever you are. Always.

She tucked it into an envelope, careful not to smudge the ink, and slid it inside the cover of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, pressing her palm to the page before closing it. Her heart was thudding with something fierce and fragile, hope.

Returning the book to its rightful shelf, Carina let her fingers trace the spine, a quiet thank you to the space that had given her Maya. She offered Jon a grateful goodnight, her expression somewhere between bliss and disbelief.

Then, she ran.

Not literally, but her pace was hurried, purposeful, letter clutched in her hand as she made her way home, the napkin tucked safely in her bag. She felt as if she were carrying something more than paper, something precious and warm. Something hers.

When she stepped inside the apartment, breath still catching in her throat, Amelia was already waiting on the couch but what she didn't expect was Jo, curled beside her with a glass of wine in hand. Carina froze, blinking.

"I told Jo there was something going on," Amelia said gently, "But not what."

"I told her when I had something real to share, I would." Carina smiled, cheeks flushed from the cold and emotion. "Well... I have something real now."

She barely took off her coat before launching into it all, how it started with a margin note, how it grew into letters, the birthday, the card, the cake, the hot chocolate. She told them about Maya's favourite table, about how she had guessed Carina's accent and smile before ever seeing her.

And then, she pulled out the letter and read.

I want to share them with someone and I wanted that someone to be you.

Jo and Amelia both gasped softly, their eyes already misty with the weight of it.

"She said it," Carina whispered, beaming. "She wants me. For the good and the bad."

"She's halfway in love with you," Jo said gently.

"No," Carina murmured. "I think we both are."

She continued reading.

The cake, by the way... dangerous.

The three of them burst into laughter, the tension breaking like sunlight through clouds.

"She asked what else I bake! I think she might be trying to bait me into feeding her for life," Carina teased, cheeks glowing.

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "And are you planning on doing that?"

Carina shrugged playfully. "Only every day until we're old and grey if she gives me half a chance."

Then she came to the next part of the letter.

Please don't ever wish to be any other version of yourself. The one you are right now reading this is perfect.

This time, the room fell quiet. Amelia reached out first, placing a soft hand on Carina's arm. Jo leaned over, hugging her shoulders from the other side.

"She sees me," Carina whispered, blinking rapidly. "Really sees me."

"She loves you," Amelia said, voice sure. "Even if she doesn't know how to say it yet."

There were more lines, some soft, some funny, others raw and honest. They were about Christmas and hiding from joy. About feeling safe for the first time. About waking up to herself through these letters. They talked through them all. The quiet grief, the quiet hope.

"She told me she's thinking about taking the leap. Evening classes. She's scared."

"She'll do it," Jo said, eyes warm. "Because she has you cheering her on."

"And you'll be there no matter what," Amelia added.

Carina nodded. "I told her... even if it all goes wrong, I'll be here. You are lovable even when you lose. That's what I wrote. Because it's true."

There was a silence then, one filled with tenderness.

"I think I love her," Carina whispered, eyes shining with something she hadn't let herself fully admit until now.

Jo smiled knowingly. "Carina... I think we knew that before you did."

Amelia laughed softly. "I've been waiting for you to say it."

Carina laughed through the emotion, wiping her cheek. "God, how did this even happen?"

"Magic," Jo shrugged. "Bookstore magic."

"Or fate," Amelia said with a wink.

Then Jo tilted her head. "For what it's worth... I kissed a girl once. A long time ago, thought it meant something, I wasn't ready. Still not sure I am."

Amelia offered a quiet smile. "And I think I have a thing for someone at work. Kai. They're brilliant and kind and funny. But I haven't done anything about it yet, I've dated guys but never a girl or someone non binary."

Carina looked between them, heart full. "You both...thank you. This means more than you know."

"Carina," Jo said gently, "whatever this becomes with Maya, we're in your corner. Always."

"Margins, lines, and everything in between," Amelia added with a grin.

And there, in the glow of soft lamps and late-night confessions, Carina felt safe, seen, loved. She curled tighter into the couch, Maya's letter still held against her chest, and thought, maybe this is what home really is.

Chapter Text

The morning was early and soft, sky just beginning to blush with colour as Maya stepped into Bellamy's.

Maya had arrived at Bellamy's earlier than usual, She hadn't meant to be up this early, but her best friend Andy was flying in from Boston later, and the rest of her day would be filled with catching up, laughter, and the familiar comfort of old friendship.

Andy had been her only constant through the chaos of adolescence, and even though she now lived across the country, she still came home once a year and always made time for Maya. But before the whirlwind of reunion began, Maya wanted this moment of quiet. She needed her time with Carina, her ritual of letters and pages and possibility, before everything else.

The bell above the door gave its usual chime, and Jon looked up from the counter with a warm smile already waiting for her.

"She appreciated the coffee and cake," he said before she even reached him.

Maya paused mid-step, the corners of her mouth curving slowly. "Yeah?" she asked, heart quietly fluttering.

He nodded, beginning to reach for a mug. "She wanted to know everything, your reaction, if you smiled, if you liked the card. She was a little nervous it might've been too much."

Maya blinked back the swell of something warm and bittersweet in her chest. "It wasn't too much," she said, almost fiercely. "It was perfect. You told her that, right?"

"I did," Jon confirmed, smiling as he started to steam the milk. "Hot chocolate?"

She nodded, murmuring a soft "please" before making her way to the back shelf, to their shelf. She barely had to reach anymore, it was like her hand knew the spine, the weight, the way it settled in her palm.

The moment she opened the cover, she saw it, Carina's envelope, her name written in that familiar, looping script.

The butterflies appeared once again. The ones that had turned up lately every time she touched a letter from Carina, every time she wondered if maybe... just maybe... this wasn't only friendship. That maybe, possibly, Carina felt the same.

Maya took her usual seat by the window, the one that caught the morning light just right. Jon brought over her hot chocolate, smile gentle, and left her to the quiet unfolding of her heart.

She broke the seal.

I want you for all of them, Maya. Every single one.

Maya didn't realise she was holding her breath until that line settled in her chest like an anchor. She wanted to be wanted, but she had never imagined being wanted like that. For the quiet days and the loud ones. For the tears and the joy. It made her ache in the best possible way.

She blinked quickly and kept reading.

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to be your smile someday too.

Her hand instinctively came up to her mouth because she was in fact smiling, there was no maybe about it, Carina was her smile. She couldn't stop it, couldn't even pretend not to. The thought that Carina might want to be the reason behind that smile made her want to laugh and cry and write her a hundred more letters.

You're worth everything. Every cake, every drink, every second I've spent searching for the right words... I wish more than anything that you saw yourself the way I see you.

Maya exhaled shakily, her fingers tracing the corner of the page like she could somehow feel Carina through the paper. No one had ever said that to her before. Not her parents, not her brother, no one. She had spent years trying to be enough and now here she was, Carina already thought she was.

Tell me what you like. What you crave. Do you cook too? What's your favourite comfort food? Favourite dessert? I want to know everything.

Maya laughed, quiet and delighted. No one ever asked her that, she wasn't even sure of the answers herself. But suddenly, she wanted to figure it out, just so she could tell Carina.

I want a kitchen filled with cinnamon and laughter and glasses of wine... maybe we can share our lists.

Maya closed her eyes for a moment, picturing it. A dim kitchen with soft music, the smell of something baking, Carina barefoot in leggings and a jumper, passing her a glass of red wine and laughing at something Maya said. Could she really have that one day?

I want to know all of you... I think there's far more good in you than bad, and I'd take every part without hesitation.

Her throat tightened. She wanted to believe that, she was trying to believe that and maybe if Carina saw it, then she could too.

I didn't want to live someone else's life... I just never expected that 'more' might be waiting for me inside a bookstore.

Maya let out a breathless sound that was half-laugh, half-tear. That's how it felt, maybe it was fate, or maybe just a well-timed coincidence. Either way, Maya was grateful for whatever force led Carina to Seattle, to Bellamy's Books, to her.

The first thing I will do is hug you... the kind that says, I see you, you're safe, you're loved.

Her arms suddenly craved the feeling of that hug. She'd never wanted physical comfort as much as she did now. Carina's embrace wasn't something she even knew she needed until the promise of it made her heart ache.

Take the leap... you are lovable even when you lose.

She hadn't cried yet but that line made her eyes brim. Lovable even when she lost. Lovable even when she failed. Lovable just... as she was. No one had ever said that and now Carina had written it like it was a fact, not a maybe.

The English seaside is officially on our someday vacation list... I hope I'm not too much for you.

Maya smiled again, shaking her head softly. Too much? If anything, Carina was everything Maya had ever wanted but never knew she needed. She was warmth and light and comfort. A thousand times enough. She wanted her, loud, expressive, all of it.

I imagine us in the corner of Bellamy's... it would be us, our own magic.

It was magic. Reading Carina's words alone already was magic but then reading together? Maya couldn't imagine how that would feel.

Your handwriting feels like home... you're my favourite.

That did it. The tears spilled over, not sad ones but full of something she didn't have a name for. She pressed her hand to her chest, fingers curled tightly over her heart. She was someone's favourite, not just anyone but Carina's.

You are seen. You are loved. And you are so special to me, Maya. I'm staying too.

Maya closed the letter and held it tightly, head bowed, heart full to bursting. There were no doubts anymore, no questions, no maybes. Carina felt it too. This wasn't just letters, it wasn't just a beautiful coincidence. It was something else, something real.

Maya turned slowly to Chapter 9, fingers brushing the edge of the page like it was something sacred. Her breath caught the moment she saw Carina's handwriting again, soft and certain, nestled against the words Maya had left behind. She read the first quote she'd underlined, the one about being a frayed and nibbled survivor and saw Carina's reply written just beneath.

You are perfect as you are. Frayed, threadbare, soft, strong, you are already everything.

How could someone who had never met her in person see her so clearly? All the parts of herself she tried to keep tucked away, the pieces she thought would make her too much or not enough, Carina had seen them anyway, and still called her everything. A warmth bloomed in her chest, impossible to ignore.

Then her eyes moved to the next annotation, not her own this time but Carina's:
"The world is more often re-made by fire and flood than by careful design."

Carina had added: You've lived through floods and still found a way to bloom. That's not weakness, that's everything.

Maya blinked hard, her throat tight. She'd spent so much of her life believing her pain made her fragile, delicate in the worst ways but Carina saw strength where Maya only saw scars. She didn't know how to hold that kind of love, but she was starting to believe she wanted to try.

Her gaze drifted to the next familiar quote and her own note beneath it:

Sometimes I wonder if that's what we're doing, if we are tracing something bigger, something just out of view. Maybe what's between us is part of that mystery. But it's real, I can feel it, even in silence, in paper and ink.

Carina had responded:
I feel you too, Maya. Deeply, in the quiet. In the space between thoughts. You live there now. This is real and I don't want to let it go.

The words struck her in the chest like a steady drumbeat. Maya ran her fingers over the ink, her heart beating in time with every syllable. You live there now. How could someone you'd never touched still feel so close, so constant? It was both terrifying and breathtaking.

She turned the page to the next margin, already knowing what she had written:

I think I lived most of my life half-asleep. Just... existing. Chasing success and silence because it felt safe. But this? Writing with you, feeling something? Maybe this is what waking up feels like.

Carina's reply was there, tucked just beneath in her delicate hand,

Sometimes I wonder if we're still half-asleep. Like passing ships, like dreams slipping through our fingers. I hope one day I open my eyes and you're in front of me. I hope the image in my mind is comparable to the real you.

Maya closed her eyes, just for a moment, imagining that moment. Carina's eyes, her voice, her presence right there across from her. How would it feel to finally bridge the space between imagination and reality? Would her hands tremble when they touched? Would it feel like breathing for the first time?

Then she turned to the final quote of the chapter, one she had chosen and one Carina had replied to.

"The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand."

Maya had written:
Maybe you're one of mine. A moment of beauty dropped into the chaos. A reminder that not everything has to hurt to matter.

Beneath it, in Carina's handwriting:
I'll be yours, if you'll be mine.

Maya's breath left her body all at once. She read the line again and again. I'll be yours, if you'll be mine. Her throat closed around the emotion clawing its way up. Yes, her heart screamed. Yes, I want that more than anything. She would give anything to be Carina's, to be the person Carina looked for in a crowd, the person who made her smile just by existing. But more than anything, she wanted Carina to be hers. Not just in letters and margins but in person too, Maya wanted Carina in her arms.

It wasn't just a hope anymore, it was a need. Something she could feel settling deep inside her, steady and impossible to ignore.

Maya's fingers trembled as she turned the page into Chapter 10, the weight of Carina's last response still lingering in her chest like an ache. She hadn't expected more, Carina had already given her so much but there it was: two more margin notes, quiet but certain, underlined with the kind of reverence that made Maya's eyes sting with emotion.

The first quote Carina had highlighted read:
"Love is the world's sweetest yes."

And beneath it, in Carina's soft script:
That's what this feels like. Every word, every page, every time I find your handwriting beside mine. It feels like saying yes to something I didn't even know I needed. Maybe yes to you, to us.

Maya let the words sink in slowly, like they were seeping into her bloodstream. Yes to you, to us. Her lips parted slightly, the air catching in her throat. It was the clearest confirmation she could've asked for, if she wasn't sure already, she was now, Carina felt it too. Whatever this thing was between them, it wasn't just imagined. It wasn't one-sided. She traced her finger over the word "yes," feeling it echo inside her like a promise.

She uncapped her pen and wrote beneath it:

-Then let this be my yes too. My sweetest, softest, most certain yes. To you, to us, to whatever this is becoming.-

Her eyes shifted a few pages to the second quote Carina had marked, and her heart gave another sharp pull.

"We are here to witness the miracle, to name it when we see it, to love it while it's here."

Carina had written:
–I think this, and you, might be my miracle. I don't know what happens next, if we meet or what we become. But I see it, I see you, and I love it. I love what we have, what we share, while it's here.–

Maya blinked rapidly, willing more tears not to fall. A miracle is what Carina called her, she had never been anyone's miracle before. Not their safe place, not their reason for smiling but here she was, loved in the margins, seen between the lines.

She took a deep breath, then wrote:

-You're my miracle too because you remind me what it means to hope. I don't know where this leads either, but I know I don't want it to end. I want to keep writing, keep reaching for you, because whatever this is... it feels like the truest thing I've ever known.-

She flipped to the next page of the book, there were no more notes but Maya sat there for a moment, tapping the pen against the paper before she slowly, carefully, she drew a heart around the word love. Below it, in careful handwriting, she added:

-Is this what love feels like? I've never known it before. But I don't have another word big enough to hold this feeling.-

Maya paused momentarily as she turned the page to Chapter 11. She felt that familiar flutter, the anticipation of discovering something new in the margins. She leaned in, scanning each line like a lover searching for hidden meaning. Her pen hovered, heart pounding, ready to mark the moments that meant the most.

One passage slowed her breath:

"There is a holiness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues."

She traced the word holiness three times with deliberate care. Then, with a trembling hand, she drew a slender tear beside it, her fingers lingering over the ink as if touching a memory. In the space between lines, she wrote:

-This is us. We are not broken because we cry, we are powerful because we continued, we are worshipping our own strength.-

Each word held weight. She reread it aloud under her breath, wanting Carina to feel the sacred power she saw in their shared vulnerability.

A few pages further, another line made her pause and inhale:

"Passion is the only price of knowing the depths of belonging."

She circled passion with urgency, as though it might slip away, and underlined belonging twice. In the margin she wrote, carefully scanning for the perfect phrasing:

-Our ink, our notes, our sacred confessions, they are our small fires of belonging and I feel it in every beat of my heart.-

She read it again and again, hoping the words carried the emotion she felt, how vivid and alive it made her, the undeniable feeling they portrayed.

Then, near the bottom of the page, her eyes locked on one final line:

"Love is the most creative of passions, capable of stirring the world with a single gesture."

She traced love gently, then creative, drawing tiny hearts around each. She paused, pen hovering, as if afraid to mark the perfection of what she felt. Then, quietly, she wrote:

-Our notes, our letters. The way your handwriting finds mine... a single gesture that stirs my whole world.-

Her chest ached with the truth of it, this love, this creative echo of their souls, bound by words on paper. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Carina reading the same lines and feeling them resonate.

With slow reverence, she closed the book, its spine creaking softly like a heartbeat. Ink-stained fingertips touched the cover, as if she could imprint her feelings into its fabric. Heart pounding, eyes glistening, she whispered:

"I want you to feel this. I want you to know how much this matters, you're stirring my entire world."

The book felt heavier in her hands, not from the weight, but from the promise of everything held within: tears, passion, love, honestly and in that quiet corner of Bellamy's, among the gentle hum of other readers, Maya knew their story was stronger than any grand declaration. It lived in these whispered confessions, whispered gestures, in the sacred margins of their hearts.

Maya's hand trembled slightly as she reached for a blank sheet of parchment paper tucked inside her notebook. The book lay open beside her at her favorite table at Bellamy's, where sunlight filtered gently through the window and caught the ink of Carina's latest letter, making it glimmer like gold dust . Her heart ached in the most beautiful way as she reread the final lines. She didn't want to rush a single word, Carina deserved more than just a response. She deserved to feel what Maya was feeling. So, Maya pressed her pen to the page and began.

Dear Carina,

You have no idea how much it means to me that you want to be there for everything, for the good, the bad, the quiet, the chaotic. Just knowing you'd show up for all of it makes me feel less alone in this world than I've ever felt before. I want to be there for you too, for every moment, no matter how it looks. Sick days or sad days or the days full of joy for no reason at all. I want them all if it means I get to have them with you. Being the person you want for all of it means more to me than I know how to say. I want you to be my person too, more than I've ever wanted anyone to be.

Please know that I'll always thank you. Not out of obligation, but because there will never be a day I take you for granted. You walked into my life, so quietly and softly, without warning and chose to stay. That alone is something I will never stop being grateful for. As for my next birthday, I would give anything to be beside you for it. Maybe we can sit together for hours? I can't promise my cake will rival yours, though I will try but maybe I could draw you something instead? Art has always been a quiet love of mine. But more than gifts or drawings, what I really want is to just be there. To share that day with you. Fully, physically, and completely.

Somehow, you see me, like you really see me and I don't know how you do it, but you find the parts I've always hidden and you hold them with such gentle reverence. There are no words that explain what that does to me. I'm not used to being seen without being judged and I'll admit, I'm still learning how to receive that kind of love, but I want to learn. For you and with you because I want you to stay. Forever, if that's on the table.

The cake? Still dangerous. I took it into work and caused a small riot, everyone asking who made it and if I could get more. It was a little awkward not knowing how to describe you, friend doesn't feel like enough but more, I don't want to presume but I can hope. But for the record, I'd eat anything you made. As for me, I cook well enough to survive, and I've never given myself food poisoning. My favorite comfort food? Mac & cheese. I wasn't allowed it as a kid, my father always said it was too "fattening," apparently. So now I indulge whenever I need comfort. Dessert? Sticky toffee pudding. Sweet things feel like a quiet rebellion, a way of giving my younger self something she missed, trick or treat, holiday candy, Easter eggs. What about you? What's your favorite thing to make when you're missing home?

I'd go ice skating with you in a heartbeat. We'd stay on the ice for hours, and take a photo because we wanted to remember it, not because someone told us we should. I would love to share our holiday lists and tick them off, one by one. Especially the kitchen part, filled with cinnamon, music, and laughter. And yes, I'd love if you could teach me how to make cookies. One of my dreams has always been to bake them on Christmas Eve with my children someday. I bet your recipe would blow every Pinterest version out of the water.

You said you'd take every part of me. That you want the good, the bad, the things that hurt and the things that heal. I'm scared, Carina, I won't lie. Scared that if I show you the worst parts, you'll run. But I want to try, I want to give you everything, even the messy pieces because I'll take all of you too, every inch, every piece, especially the ones you hesitate to share. You're worth knowing in your entirety.

I can't imagine what it was like to leave behind the only life you knew. I don't know that culture, not firsthand, but I do know what it's like to feel like someone's already written your story. I'm proud of you, Carina. You made the hardest choice, the bravest one and I'm selfishly so glad you did because your courage brought you here. It brought you to me.

Let's change 'if' we meet to 'when' we meet because I can't hold this distance much longer. I crave you in ways I never expected, your voice, your smile, your presence. I want to sit beside you, hold your hand, wrap you in a hug that says everything we've written and more. I want to see you, finally. Can we meet soon?

I've been rereading your words, particularly the line you are loveable even when you lose. I've never known that kind of love. Mine was always performance-based and conditional. You're teaching me something I've never learned before: that I can be loved even when I'm not achieving. That I can be enough without doing anything at all. That means everything to me and maybe that's the final push I need to take that leap of faith.

The English seaside? Absolutely. But let's add Italy and France and Spain. Maybe San Francisco or Boston too. Even local places like Mt. Rainier or Bainbridge Island, I want to see the world with you. And please, don't ever think you're too much. You're exactly right, your volume, your warmth, they feel like sunlight. I want all of it.

I promise to read the second page, as long as you promise the first. I picture it, too, us in Bellamy's, tucked in a corner, reading quietly and smiling between sips of hot chocolate and espresso. It's not just a dream anymore. It feels like a plan.

I hope you don't return to Italy either, not because it's not beautiful, but because I want you here. I want you where you're happy, where you're surrounded by friends and things that bring you joy. You say my handwriting feels like home, but Carina, you feel like home to me. I didn't know what a "person" meant until you but now I do, and that person is you.

I won't stop either. Not the writing. Not the reading. Not this.

You are seen, you are loved and you are everything to me.

With you.
In the margins.
Between the lines.
Wherever you are.

Always,
Maya

Maya carefully slid her letter into the envelope, smoothing the flap down with the same tenderness she reserved for every word she had written. She held it to her chest for a beat, breathing in like she could still feel Carina's warmth in the ink. Then, she placed a kiss on the envelope before tucking it inside the cover of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, pressing it gently between the pages like it was something sacred. It was their book, their space. She placed the novel back in its rightful spot on the shelf and let her fingers trail across the spine one last time.

"Heading out?" Jon called from behind the counter.

Maya nodded, her smile soft. "Yeah. Meeting a friend."

Maya stepped out into the golden Seattle afternoon and made her way to the little restaurant down the block. The minute she walked in, she saw her best friend Andy waving from a booth with that same wild energy Maya remembered from every summer home visit.

"Maya Bishop!" Andy beamed, jumping up and pulling her into a tight hug. "You look like someone just handed you a puppy and a winning lottery ticket at the same time."

Maya laughed into the embrace, feeling lighter already. "It's really good to see you."

They sat down, and Andy wasted no time ordering two glasses of wine and a plate of fries to share. "Okay, catch me up. How's work? How's life? Are you still living in that apartment with the weird neighbor who sings Taylor Swift at midnight?"

Maya grinned. "Works... work I guess, Yes to the neighbor, no to everything else being the same. Life's... different." Maya couldn't help but smile, her life was different now Carina had entered it.

Andy squinted at her, lips twitching with suspicion. "You've got a look, Bish. That glowy, soft-focus, 'I've been staring at the stars while thinking about someone special' look."

Maya tried to brush it off with a shrug and a sip of wine, but her cheeks betrayed her. The heat bloomed, the blush giving her away completely.

"Oh my God," Andy gasped, leaning in across the table. "Who is she? I've never seen you like this. You're actually... blushing."

"I'm not blushing," Maya lied weakly, fiddling with a fry.

Andy reached across the table, practically vibrating. "Tell me everything, please. I need details, I haven't had a good love story to live vicariously through in months. Come on, give me her name, at least!"

Maya's smile broke free, unstoppable. "Her name's Carina."

Andy's eyes lit up. "Carina. That's hot, Is she hot? Of course she is. Where did you meet? Work? Coffee shop? Bookstore? Please tell me you reached for the same book and your hands touched."

Maya bit her lip. "Something like that."

Andy's eyes sparkled with interest. "Ooh, romantic! Were you both reaching for the same book? Please tell me there was eye contact across the poetry aisle."

"Not... exactly." Maya's blush deepened. "It's this bookshop I go to a lot, Bellamy's. There's this book, called Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and we both kind of... started writing notes in the margins."

Andy blinked. "Wait. Like... anonymously?"

Maya nodded. "At first, yeah. But then I wrote something and she replied and it just kept going. Now it's our thing, we read it together, slowly, chapter by chapter. We underline the quotes we like, and leave messages. We even " she smiled softly but continued anyway, "we even buy each other drinks and leave notes on the napkins."

Andy put a hand to her chest, mock-swooning. "Maya. This is like epistolary romance meets indie bookshop AU, I am obsessed. What's she like?"

Maya lit up instantly. "She's Italian. She has been in Seattle almost eight months. She is brunette, tanned, and she bakes like really bakes. She made me this chocolate cake for my birthday and left it with Jon at the shop. It had icing flowers and everything. I have a picture, hang on."

Maya unlocked her phone and slid it across the table. Andy studied the photo of the decadent cake, her jaw dropping. "Wait. She made this? She's a chef and a poet?"

"She's not a chef," Maya grinned, "she's a medical researcher and works in a lab but she loves food. She also loves books and travelling. We've talked about places we want to visit together one day, we just... click."

Andy handed her phone back, still wide-eyed. "Damn. You're really into her."

Maya nodded, her expression softer now. "I am."

"Okay, now I have to see what she looks like," Andy said, leaning forward. "Photo, please."

Maya hesitated, eyes flicking down. The confidence she'd worn like a second skin the entire conversation slipped a little.

"Uh..." she laughed awkwardly. "I don't... have one."

Andy frowned. "Wait, what?"

Maya took a deep breath. "We haven't... met in person yet."

Andy stared at her. "Come again?"

Maya looked down, suddenly shy. "We read together. We write letters to each other. We hide them in the book at Bellamy's. Jon, the guy who works there, he watches over the book. He's the only one who knows. He gives me little updates about her sometimes and I think he tells her about me too. So even though we haven't met, it still feels like we... know each other."

Andy was quiet for a beat, her teasing gone.

"You haven't even seen her?" she asked gently.

Maya shook her head. "Not even a picture."

Andy tilted her head, studying her best friend. "And yet, you're this sure?"

"I am," Maya whispered. "It's not just about what she says but how she says it. Her words make me feel like I'm more than I've ever been allowed to be. Like I'm seen and I see her too. Every letter... it's like falling deeper into something I didn't know I was missing."

Andy let out a slow breath, then leaned back with a quiet smile. "Okay, that's... kind of beautiful, a little weird but mostly beautiful."

Maya let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah?"

Andy reached for a fry and popped it in her mouth. "Yeah. I mean, I'm still gonna make fun of you for falling for a mystery margin girl, but only a little. If she makes you smile like this, then I'm all in."

Maya beamed, the kind of smile she didn't even try to hide. "She does, she really, really does."

Maya hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing the edge of the envelope in her coat pocket like it was something sacred. "Do you want to see the letter she left me today?"

Andy's eyes widened. "Obviously."

Maya smiled, cheeks pink with anticipation as she slipped the envelope free and gently unfolded the letter. "I won't read all of it, it's kinda long... and personal but I'll read you some parts."

She ran her thumb over the creased paper, smoothing it on the table between them. Her voice softened as she began to read aloud.

I wish I had been there too. For all of it, the good and the bad. The kind of bad that makes your bones ache and the kind of good that makes you glow from the inside out. I wish you were there for mine too... I want you for all of them, Maya. Every single one.

Andy's teasing smirk melted into something gentler. "Damn. She's not playing around."

"No," Maya murmured, a hand over her heart. "She never does. She says what she means."

"She wants all of it with you," Andy said, eyes still on the letter. "That's huge."

Maya nodded, then continued, voice a little lower this time.

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to be your smile someday too... maybe on your next birthday, I'll sit beside you and drink an overly sweetened hot chocolate with you too.

Andy let out a quiet exhale. "Okay, she's good. Like, really good."

"She made me cake, Andy. Chocolate cake. Homemade." Maya grinned. "And she didn't even know how much I love chocolate."

"Oh she definitely knew," Andy said with a knowing look.

Maya laughed. "Yeah, maybe she did."

She glanced back at the letter and kept reading, carefully selecting the lines that made her heart race.

You are worth more than any scribbled birthday note. You're worth everything... I wish more than anything that you saw yourself the way I see you. I'm sorry if no one's ever shown you before. But I promise you, I will. For as long as you'll let me.

Andy's brows lifted. "Holy crap, Maya. That's not a crush, that's like... a vow."

"I know," Maya whispered, barely holding back the emotion. "She just... gets me and I don't know how."

"She makes you believe in it, huh?" Andy asked gently.

Maya nodded. "Yeah, she really does."

Andy leaned forward slightly. "What does she do again? You said something about medical...?"

"She's a medical researcher," Maya said, smile stretching. "She works in a lab. Her job is all science and precision, but then she turns around and writes me things like 'you are lovable even when you lose.'"

Andy blinked, visibly moved. "That one kinda hits."

Maya smiled sadly. "Yeah. I've never heard that before."

She continued, softer now.

"I think this, and you, might be my miracle. I don't know what happens next... but I see it, I see you, and I love it, I love what we have."

Andy sat back, one hand on her chest. "Okay. Officially swooning, I am swooning for you."

Maya laughed, wiping a stray tear that had gathered in the corner of her eye. "I've read this three times today already and every time it hits harder making me cry all over again."

"Does she know how you feel?" Andy asked carefully.

"I think so," Maya said. "I'm trying to show her in the letters, in the way I respond. But I want her to feel it, I want her to know it's not just words on paper."

Andy smiled softly, resting her chin on her hand. "I don't think you need to worry. That woman is writing like she's already halfway in love with you."

"Yeah," Maya whispered, pressing her hand to the folded letter like it was a heartbeat. "And the wildest part is... I think I might already be all the way in love with her too."

Andy reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. "Then write her the hell out of that love, Maya and maybe it's time you met her, for real."

"She wrote 'if we meet'," Maya said quietly, glancing at Andy. "In my letter today, I asked her if we could change that to when we meet."

Andy's expression softened again, and she didn't interrupt as Maya continued.

"I want it to happen, no I need it to happen. I can't keep pretending I don't lie awake at night wondering what it's like to sit beside her. I crave that hug she keeps writing about like it's already saved me. I think about us walking through the park and holding hands, like it's something I've done before, like it's something I miss." Maya laughed nervously, her voice cracking just slightly. "But I haven't even touched her yet. Isn't that insane?"

"No," Andy said immediately, her voice steady and full of understanding. "It's not insane. It's kind of... beautiful. Honestly. "

Maya met her eyes, and Andy smiled. "Maybe this way actually works better for you."

Maya tilted her head in question.

"You're not great at just jumping in," Andy said with a teasing shrug. "I've known you too long and you like safety, control, knowing how things unfold before you say yes. But this? It gave you time to know her and trust her without all the chaos and noise."

Maya's laugh was soft and self-deprecating. "I was scared, I am scared."

"But?" Andy asked sending there was more,

"But more than anything..." Maya paused, eyes on the letter again. "I want it, I want her."

Chapter Text

"Off to talk to lover girl?" Amelia teased, bumping Carina's shoulder with a mischievous grin as they left the lab.

Carina rolled her eyes affectionately, not bothering to deny it. Jo, ever the peacemaker, gave Amelia a gentle slap on the arm. "Stop teasing," she chided, but Carina just smiled.

"It's fine," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "She's not wrong."

Because she wasn't. The only thing getting Carina through the tedium of recent late nights and back-to-back data analysis was the thought of Maya's words waiting for her, somewhere between chapter nine and the back cover, nestled in ink and hope.

Carina stepped out into the misty haze of the evening and started the familiar walk to Bellamy's, her heart ticking faster with each step. Her hands were cold, but her chest felt warm, lit up with the quiet joy of maybe. Maybe Maya had written. Maybe there was something new waiting in the margins. Maybe she had finally answered the question Carina hadn't dared to ask outright.

Lately, Carina's thoughts had been drifting more than usual, lingering in daydreams she hadn't meant to fall into. What if one day she didn't walk to Bellamy's to speak to Maya through borrowed pages and careful pen strokes, but instead walked straight home... to her?

She imagined herself stepping through a front door, greeted not by silence, but by Maya's voice calling out from the kitchen or the soft hum of music drifting down a hallway. Would Maya meet her with a kiss or an embrace, or would they simply curl into each other on the sofa, her head in Maya's lap while Maya absentmindedly played with her hair? Maybe Maya would already have dinner ready, though Carina tended to eat late. Would Maya wait for her, just so they could eat together?

What did Maya's weekends look like? Did she take quiet walks or dive into spontaneous adventures? Would she like the idea of wandering a farmers market on a lazy Sunday, sampling fresh bread and seasonal fruit while Carina stole glances and held her hand? Would she want to stroll along the pier with coffee in hand, the sea breeze catching her hair and laughter?

Would Maya get along with her friends? Carina pictured the inevitable chaos. Amelia would tease her relentlessly, of that there was no doubt, but Carina wondered how Maya would respond. Would she roll her eyes and fire back, or would she be more like Jo, gentle, warm, someone who observed first and spoke later? Then there was Teddy, who hadn't even heard of Maya yet, thanks to her recent trip to visit family. When she returned, Carina knew she'd have some explaining to do and she wasn't even sure where to begin.

And then there were the deeper questions, the ones Carina asked herself only when the world quieted. Was Maya adventurous? Artistic? Would she sit beside her while Carina captured photos in the golden hour or would she have her own hobbies to disappear to? What would their date nights look like, would it be dinners at candlelit restaurants, or movie marathons at home, perhaps spontaneous weekend trips?

And beyond that, what did Maya want her life to look like?

Did she want to stay in accounting or was there something more she dreamed of, like books and literature? Would she want to learn a new language, travel the world, maybe go to Italy one day and meet the family Carina had left behind? Did she dream of marriage? Of a family? Or was she content to simply share a life in quiet companionship?

Carina's thoughts were still drifting when she pushed open the door to Bellamy's and was immediately greeted by Jon's familiar smile.

"Earth to Carina," he laughed from behind the counter. "You alright?"

She blinked, slightly dazed.

"I, um, sorry, I didn't hear you."

"You were somewhere else entirely," he said with a grin. "I asked if you had a good day. Twice. But clearly, you were in a better place."

Carina flushed, her cheeks warm with the weight of being caught mid-daydream. "Something like that," she mumbled, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.

Jon chuckled and turned to the espresso machine. "The usual?"

"Please," she nodded, grateful for the moment to steady herself.

She exhaled slowly, the familiar scents of roasted beans and old pages settling her nerves. Because in a few moments, she would find out if Maya had been here today. If she had left behind another letter.

And Carina couldn't help but wonder if today might be the day Maya finally said something that changed everything.

By the time Jon returned with her espresso, Carina had already settled into her usual oversized chair, the one tucked by the window, where the street light outside caught just right but the world felt safely distant. She had the book in her hands, holding it a little tighter than usual.

"How was she?" Carina asked, voice quiet, almost an afterthought as she traced the worn corner of the book cover with her thumb.

Jon sat down across from her, his own cup in hand. The store was always quiet at this time, the late evening lull settling in like a soft hush.

"Happy," he replied simply, his smile tinged with something warmer. "She cries... but she smiles at the same time. Her hands either cover her mouth in surprise or go straight to her heart. She holds the pages like they're a lifeline. Holds your letters like they're her entire world."

Carina's breath caught, and she instinctively pressed the book closer to her chest. Her heart thudded, heavy and light all at once.

"Can you tell me anything else about her?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jon nodded. "I know what I've observed. She's been coming here for years, always alone, always after work. She reads like it's a ritual. I think she's read more books here than anyone else I've ever met. And she's always... somewhere else when she reads. Somewhere deeper."

Carina's smile was soft, reverent.

"I remember once," Jon continued, "she told me she didn't have books as a child. She said she didn't grow up with them, so now she indulges like she's making up for lost time. On her 21st birthday, she bought her first ever book, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. One she had read here over and over, and loved so much she wanted her own copy. She loves the classics, the English literature. She brought it in the next day to show me. She was so proud to start her own collection."

Carina's chest ached. There was something deeply unfair in the idea of a child without books, without stories to escape into. No wonder Maya imagined her own worlds in the dark. She remembered one letter in particular, Maya writing about whispering stories to herself like lullabies, imagining better endings than the ones she lived.

If Carina could, she would read to her every single night. She would make up for every bedtime story missed, every chapter Maya was never read. She wanted to hand her whole libraries and say, "these are yours now."

"Thank you," Carina said quietly, her eyes glassy. It wasn't just a polite thank you, it was full, heartfelt, sacred. "I love every little thing you tell me about her."

Jon gave her a soft smile and nodded, leaving her to it.

She could barely contain herself as she set down her coffee and opened the book, breath catching in anticipation. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the envelope that was tucked neatly between the pages like it belonged there.

Because it did. Maya belonged here now, in the pages, in the margins and in every beat of Carina's heart.

Carina slowly unfolded Maya's letter, the neat folds already worn soft from where her thumb had traced over them on the walk from their shelf to her seat. She always opened these letters with care because she very word from Maya felt sacred to her.

Her eyes skimmed the first few lines, and already her chest tightened.

Just knowing you'd show up for all of it makes me feel less alone in this world than I've ever felt before.

Carina blinked, hard. Her throat thickened with emotion, and she pressed a fingers deeper into the page. Maya wanted her, for all of it. Carina thought she'd only ever hope to be someone's person in that way. She didn't know she already was, the way Maya had said it with such conviction, with such raw vulnerability. That she wanted to be Carina's person too. Carina closed her eyes, letting the words settle into her like sunlight through the clouds.

I can't promise my cake will rival yours... maybe I could draw you something instead?

Carina laughed, her thumb brushing the margin. Of course Maya drew, of course her talents reached beyond writing and speaking straight to Carina's soul. She could picture it, Maya, pencil in hand, completely focused, probably forgetting the time as she created something beautiful. Maybe Carina would photograph while Maya drew, two forms of art, two hobbies collaborating perfectly. Carina already adored every version of Maya, but the image of her sitting beside her with a sketchpad and soft eyes made her ache with want.

There are no words that explain what that does to me... but I want to learn. For you and with you because I want you to stay. Forever, if that's on the table.

Carina had to pause here. Her hands, slightly shaking, folded the letter against her lap as she took a steadying breath. The bookstore fell quiet around her, but her pulse was thunder in her ears. Forever. Maya was offering her forever, quietly and cautiously, but it was there. Carina didn't realise how much she'd been waiting to hear something like that until it was sitting in her lap in Maya's unmistakable script. This is real, she told herself. She feels it too. It's not just hope anymore.

Friend doesn't feel like enough... but more, I don't want to presume but I can hope.

"Oh, Maya" Carina whispered, her smile bittersweet. She wanted to reach through the letter, across all the pages and the unspoken spaces, and say you can hope because I do too. I hope for you and I hope for us.

She laughed again when she got to the mac and cheese confession, then blinked back tears at the idea of Maya not being allowed to enjoy comfort foods. It said so much about the way Maya had been raised with control and restraint instead of love and warmth. Carina would feed her everything sweet and soft in the world if she could. She made a mental note to perfect a sticky toffee pudding recipe before the holidays.

And then came the image of skating together. But it was the line about baking with children that made Carina's breath hitch. That was a dream she didn't dare speak often as she hadn't been sure she'd ever find someone who wanted those things too. But Maya did. She wanted more than shared pages and soft letters, she wanted cinnamon-scented kitchens and laughter and cookies on Christmas Eve, and Carina wanted it with her.

You're worth knowing in your entirety.

Carina ran her fingers over that line slowly, her eyes stinging. There were pieces of herself she'd buried, feared were too much. But Maya wanted them, she wanted all of her. Carina was beginning to believe she could give that. She was beginning to believe she wouldn't be punished for being known.

And then the moment came where Maya asked,

Can we change 'if' we meet to 'when' we meet?

Carina's heart leapt. Her hands gripped the edges of the letter as if she could steady herself against the tide of emotion crashing over her. Maya wasn't just dreaming about someday anymore, she was asking for soon. She wants to see me. She wants to hold my hand. She wants to stand beside me.

Carina wiped her eyes, already hearing Amelia's voice in her head teasing her later but right now, she didn't care. She had a letter in her lap that said she was loved, not for what she gave or achieved but just for being her.

You feel like home to me.

That line broke her. A soft, gasping sob escaped her lips before she could stop it. She pressed her hand to her chest again, her eyes closed tightly, as though maybe if she focused hard enough she'd feel Maya's hand there too. The idea of being someone's home after so long being transient, adrift, it unraveled her in the best possible way.

I won't stop either. Not the writing. Not the reading. Not this.

Neither would she. Never.

Carina sat in the quiet of Bellamy's, letter clutched to her chest, heart bursting. This wasn't just a crush. This wasn't curiosity. This was love, deep and blooming and so profoundly real, and now she knew Maya felt it too.

Carina's hands moved reverently across the pages as she turned back to Chapter 10, her heart already swelling with anticipation. She'd always loved this part, returning to where she'd left her thoughts nestled in the margins, waiting to see what Maya had seen, what she had felt, what she had written back. Their annotations had become sacred, an unspoken language between two hearts learning how to speak to eachother.

She remembered how carefully she'd chosen her words, how long she'd searched for the right lines. She wasn't just looking for beautiful quotes, she was looking for pieces of her heart already written by someone else, something that could carry the weight of everything she felt but hadn't yet said aloud. She remembered the flutter in her chest as she'd underlined the first quote and dared to hope Maya would understand.

"Love is the world's sweetest yes."

And there, still in the same place she had marked it, her own handwriting stared back at her.

–That's what this feels like. Every word, every page, every time I find your handwriting beside mine. It feels like saying yes to something I didn't even know I needed. Maybe yes to you, to us.–

Her breath caught again, even though she knew what came next.

Maya had written beneath it, and Carina traced the words with her fingertips like she might absorb them through her skin.

-Then let this be my yes too. My sweetest, softest, most certain yes. To you, to us, to whatever this is becoming.-

Carina closed her eyes. Maya knew, even without her spelling it out, without anything loud or dramatic, Maya had known and she had said yes.

She hadn't just understood the question Carina hadn't asked, she'd answered wholeheartedly.

Carina nearly lost herself in the sweetness of that thought, nearly gave in to another daydream of Maya's arms around her and their books stacked on a shared shelf. But something tugged at her, a need, a craving for one more reply. She turned the page, knowing what was coming.

"We are here to witness the miracle, to name it when we see it, to love it while it's here."

She remembered writing this note almost with trembling hands.

-I think this, and you, might be my miracle. I don't know what happens next, if we meet or what we become. But I see it, I see you, and I love it. I love what we have, what we share, while it's here.-

Carina scanned for Maya's reply.

-You're my miracle too because you remind me what it means to hope. I don't know where this leads either, but I know I don't want it to end. I want to keep writing, keep reaching for you, because whatever this is... it feels like the truest thing I've ever known.-

The breath she'd been holding escaped her all at once, trembling and uneven. Her fingers clutched the book to her chest, her body curling forward like she needed to hold the weight of Maya's words somewhere close to her heart.

This is real, she thought. This is real and mutual and alive and it's happening right here, in ink and parchment and hearts pressed together across pages.

She wanted to see her, to touch her. She wanted to curl into her lap after work, to whisper "You're my miracle, too" against her skin.

Carina flipped the final page of the chapter, preparing herself to keep reading but something stopped her.

Her eyes caught on a small, imperfect heart drawn at the bottom of the page around the word love. The mark wasn't as precise as Carina's own, it was slightly slanted, a little uneven but it was utterly and irrevocably Maya.

And beneath it, the words that carved into Carina's soul:

-Is this what love feels like? I've never known it before. But I don't have another word big enough to hold this feeling.-

Carina's breath caught and her vision blurred. She leaned over the book as if it were a fragile thing, as if it might vanish if she blinked too hard.

She swallowed, heart thudding like a drum, and whispered into the hush of Bellamy's, "Yes." Yes, this is love, yes, this is us. Yes, I'll show you what it means, every day, for as long as you'll let me.

She reached for her pen, hesitating only briefly before she added a heart of her own, nestled beneath Maya's, more symmetrical but just as full of feeling.

Inside, in her soft script, she wrote one word:

Yes.

Because Maya had asked, and Carina needed her to know, she was her yes.

Carina lingered for a moment longer, fingers still resting on the heart she had drawn, the one that answered Maya's question with the only truth that mattered. Her chest ached in the softest, most beautiful way, in longing, in love, and something wordless that only Maya had managed to stir in her.

But she wasn't ready to leave yet. She needed more, she always needed more when it came to Maya. No note, no letter, no marginalia was ever enough to quench the ache that had taken root in her soul. And while her body couldn't close the distance just yet, perhaps chapter 11 could offer something, a new line, a fresh glimpse of Maya's heart that could settle her own, even for a moment.

She turned the page gently, expectantly, only to find the first two pages untouched. No ink, no markings. Her heart sank, a flutter of disappointment sweeping through her. Maybe Maya hadn't had time. Maybe she'd left in a rush.

But before her thoughts could spiral further, she turned one more page, and there it was.

The soft, slanted curve of Maya's handwriting next to a line that already felt like truth:

"There is a holiness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues."

Carina's breath hitched as her eyes moved to the margin, where Maya had written:

-This is us. We are not broken because we cry, we are powerful because we continued, we are worshipping our own strength.-

Carina's eyes welled up instantly, her heart squeezing with something sacred and whole. She took a deep, shaky breath, pen already poised in her hand as she replied below Maya's words:

–I've cried a thousand tears over you, Maya. But not out of weakness and never out of sadness. Every single one has been from love, from joy, from finding you and from belonging. From the weight of feeling seen and chosen and safe. If this is worship, I am on my knees for you.–

She exhaled slowly, grounding herself in the moment. She wasn't alone, not in her tears or in her longing. Not in this love that was becoming something real and breathtaking.

She turned the next few pages with care, eyes scanning every corner, until another mark called to her like a beacon. This time, it wasn't a full quote, but a single word. Circled.

Passion.

Her eyes found the sentence it lived within:

"Passion is the only price of knowing the depths of belonging."

And there, Maya had written:

-Our ink, our notes, our sacred confessions, they are our small fires of belonging and I feel it in every beat of my heart.-

Carina pressed a hand to her chest, the ache blooming again like something holy.

She wrote below, her own script steady and sure:

–I belong to you, Maya. To every word, every margin, every letter. I belong to you with a fire that burns in my blood, with my whole being. You are where I feel most like myself.–

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, imagining Maya's face as she read it. Would she smile? Would she clutch the book like Carina did, like it was something sacred and alive?

As she turned to the final page of the chapter, a delighted breath escaped her lips.

Tiny love hearts were drawn in the margin, scattered like soft confetti around one final quote:

"Love is the most creative of passions, capable of stirring the world with a single gesture."

It was sweet, almost childlike. Romantic in a way that made Carina want to laugh and cry and kiss her all at once.

And Maya's note beneath the quote took her breath away:

-Our notes, our letters. The way your handwriting finds mine, a single gesture that stirs my whole world.-

Carina's heart twisted, full to the brim with emotion. She read it three times before lifting her pen and writing below:

–Every gesture, every word, every trace of you stirs my world too. I will never stop, Maya. Not the notes, not the letters, not this feeling. Whether it's ink on napkins, a flower on your pillow, or kisses left on your collarbone, I will continue for as long as I live.–

She closed the book softly, reverently. Then held it close, her forehead resting against the worn cover. This wasn't just a book anymore. It was them. Their quiet revolution, their miracle.

And Carina knew, deep in the marrow of her bones, she was ready. It was time to meet the woman who had written her heart into the margins.

Her fingertips grazed over the edges of the pages, they were still warm from where she'd just closed chapter eleven, her heart still humming with Maya's words, her sweetness, her hope, her certainty. Yes, Maya had said. Yes to her and yes to them.

Now Carina needed to find her own words, not just to respond, but to reach. To speak across the paper and pages in a way that would hold Maya tightly even when Carina's arms could not.

She tucked her feet beneath her on the oversized chair and turned gently to chapter twelve of Pilgrim at Tinker's Creek, the rustle of pages the only sound in the quiet corner of Bellamy's. The espresso sat forgotten beside her, cooling in its cup. What she really needed now was the right lines. The ones that spoke what her chest couldn't contain.

The chapter opened slowly, the words almost meditative in their rhythm, but Carina kept reading, she kept waiting for that pull. The sentence that would whisper, yes, this one. This is how you feel.

And then she found it:

"What I see sets me reeling; I didn't know I could see that well. I didn't know there was so much to see."

Carina felt her throat tighten with recognition. She underlined it carefully, her handwriting steady and slow as she wrote beneath:

–That's what you've done to me, Maya. You've opened a world I didn't know I could see, a softness I didn't know I deserved. You make everything brighter, clearer, you make me feel more alive.–

She paused, holding the pen to her lips for a moment, she meant it more than she could possibly explain. In every message, every margin, every imagined moment between them, Maya made the world feel lit from within.

A few pages later, her eyes caught on another line:

"The pain of leaving the river is nothing to the pain of not having known it."

It reminded her of all her doubts, all her fears. The slow ache in her chest every time she wondered what if Maya wasn't real, what if this was all too fragile, too much, too soon. But what if she never took the chance?

She wrote:

-If this ends, if we lose whatever this is becoming, it will hurt, it would hurt more than I can imagine. But not trying? That would be a sorrow I couldn't bear because you are already part of me, Maya. I'd rather hurt from knowing you than from the ache of never trying.-

Her hand lingered on the page. She blinked fast, brushing away the tears that gathered. Not of sadness but of knowing the truth. Of something that had lived nameless inside her finally being said.

There was one final line she couldn't ignore, tucked quietly near the end of the chapter:

"This is it, I think, this is what I want to see: the present moment, the ordinary moment, the moment that is."

Carina felt something bloom in her chest, it was slow and sure but entirely certain.

She circled it softly and beneath, she wrote:

-If I had only one wish, it would be this, to share the ordinary with you. The quiet mornings and the late nights. The middle-of-the-day laughter and the exhausted silences. You are the moment I want, you are the now I didn't know I was waiting for.-

When she finished, Carina sat back and stared down at the page, her chest aching in the most beautiful way, in the way it always did at the thought of Maya.

She'd poured herself into the margins, left tiny pieces of her heart for Maya to find and keep, her words carved with hope and devotion, stitched in between the printed lines of someone else's story.

And maybe that's what love was. Not a grand gesture or a perfect plan. But choosing someone again and again, in the quiet, in the ordinary, in the sacred stillness between two turned pages.

With her hands still trembling slightly, Carina reached for her pen. It was time to write back. Not just as a habit or tradition, but as a response to the most beautiful confession she'd ever received.

Because soon wasn't far away anymore.

Dear Maya,

You have no idea what it did to me, reading your letter. I've read it three times now, maybe four if we're being honest, and every time I do, I feel like the space between us gets just a little bit smaller. Like you're not pages away, but somehow right beside me.

You said you want it all, the chaos and the calm, the joy and the sadness and Maya, so do I. I want every version of you. I want the girl who writes with her heart in her throat and the one who holds her breath when she's scared. I want the one who laughs too loud and the one who needs to hide in the quiet. I want the bad days, the sick days, the sunniest and rainiest days. I want them all if they mean I get to have them with you. And I have to tell you, when I read that you want to be my person, I actually gasped, out loud, in public. A little dramatically. And then a woman at the next table stared at me like I'd just read a marriage proposal on my tax bill.

But truly, Maya, you are already my person, and I'm yours if you'll have me.

Your words about never taking me for granted they were like wrapping myself in the softest blanket on the coldest night. The way you talk about me walking into your life "quietly and softly" do you know that's how you came into mine, too? One note, one line at a time. And now I can't imagine a single day without you in it. The idea of spending your birthday together sounds like the most perfect celebration, either it's quiet hours beside each other, or maybe a terrible movie playing in the background. Honestly, I'd just like to sit with you, hear your voice without needing to imagine it.

But now, about this drawing thing, you cannot just casually drop that you draw and then move on like it's nothing. That's not how this works! What do you draw? People? Landscapes? Animals? Do you draw in sketchbooks or on napkins like our letters? Is it messy or precise? And how often? Are there piles of secret notebooks in your home I should know about? Please don't tell me you're secretly incredible at it, or I'll be forced to retaliate with an offensively large framed photo of my worst art class attempt from high school.

When you say that I see you, that I find the parts you've hidden, it's only because you've shown me something real. You've let me in and I want to see you fully, without barriers, without apologies. You don't have to hide anything from me. Nothing about you needs to be made smaller, or quieter, or "less." I will be here, patient and unwavering, while you learn how to receive love. But I promise you this, I will never stop offering it.

I was so glad you didn't call me a friend at work. Because that word? It doesn't even begin to come close. I'm not your friend, I'm something more or at least, I hope to be. Honestly, I wanted to scream "SHE'S TALKING ABOUT ME" when I read that part, but unfortunately, I was drinking espresso and choking on caffeine doesn't feel like the grand romantic gesture I'd hoped for.

Also the cake? The riot? I laughed out loud. I'm not sorry about it but next time I'll make enough to cause a minor festival. And yes, pasta is my domain, though I confess I cannot make mac & cheese to save my life. I've tried. I've burned it. How do you burn pasta and cheese? It's an art, honestly, an American one clearly because this Italian thrives of making incredible pasta dishes yet a simple pasta and cheese sauce is clearly beyond my capabilities. But you mentioning sticky toffee pudding? Let's just say, I'm now deep into perfecting a recipe. I even have the sticky fingers to prove it.

When I miss home, I make lasagna. Layer by layer, it reminds me of Sunday dinners, of warmth and loud conversations and too many people in a small kitchen. Tiramisu is the dessert of choice because it tastes like celebration, like tiny espresso-soaked triumphs. But I think maybe now, when I make either, I'll think of you and that makes them even better.

The moment you brought up ice skating I nearly melted. Please, please can we go this year? I want to fall over like an idiot and laugh until my ribs ache. I want us to hold hands with frozen fingers and red noses and take a photo not because we have to but because we can, because we want too. Also, I have this dream now where we wear matching Christmas pyjamas on Christmas Eve and drink hot chocolate under a blanket and then maybe we bake cookies together with Christmas music playing. Yes, we'll go to the markets and find that one perfect ornament, the one that says, "this was the year everything changed."

You said you were scared and that broke my heart in the softest way because you're brave, Maya. Brave for still loving, even after being hurt. Brave for telling me your truth. Brave for writing letters when your hands probably shook. But you need to know, I'm scared too. I'm scared I'll say too much, feel too much, come on too strong. I'm scared I'll overwhelm you. But I'll keep showing up and I'll keep choosing you.

I'm so glad I'm here. That my journey led me to Seattle, to this place, to that book, to you. I would endure it all again if it meant finding you on the other side.

You said when we meet, not if and I've never loved a single word so much. So yes, a thousand times yes. I want the hug, Maya. I want to hear your laugh, I want to know the exact colour of your eyes. I want to sit beside you and not need to write it down because I'll be able to say it. So tell me. When?

You are lovable, Maya, always. Even when you don't win, even when you feel small. You are lovable when you're quiet, when you're loud, when you're just you. I will never ask you to achieve for my affection. That's not what love is, that's pressure and control and you don't have to perform for me. Just be. That's all I'll ever ask. Take the leap, I'll be there. I'll be right next to you, always.

Yes to Italy and France and Spain. Yes to all the places I've been and all the ones I haven't and you know what? Yes to boring Tuesday errands and late-night pharmacy runs and breakfasts at 11am because we forgot to eat. I want a life with you both ordinary and extraordinary. I want all of it.

And yes to Bellamy's. To the corners, to the hot drinks, to the next book and the one after that. But I don't want just one moment. I want all the moments. Every new chapter. Every single page. Let's make this our story, one line at a time.

I'm not planning to go back to Italy. Not now, not unless you're coming with me. My research here is temporary, but you? You are not. I'll find something else, something to keep me here. Because you are here and being near you feels like breathing for the first time. You are my joy. You are my home.

So no I won't stop either. I'll keep writing and I'll keep reading. I'll keep loving you the only way I know how, fully, completely, and without hesitation.

Thank you for choosing me, Maya. For seeing me and for loving me. You are everything.

With you.
In the margins.
Between the lines.
Wherever you are.

Forever yours,
Carina

Carina smoothed the edges of her note, her handwriting still drying in the bottom corner of the page where she'd signed it. She read it once, then again, just to make sure she hadn't held back and she hadn't. Her heart was folded inside that letter, tucked safely into the pages of their shared book. With a lingering touch, she pressed the cover closed and placed it carefully back into the nook of their space, the space that had become a sanctuary, a ritual, and a doorway to something she could no longer imagine her life without.

She stood slowly, glancing back at the worn chair that now held so many memories, then made her way to the counter where Jon stood, drying a mug in his hands.

Carina hesitated for a second, then asked softly, "Will I know it's her?"

Jon looked up, setting the mug aside. His face creased into a warm, knowing smile, the kind of smile that came from watching something rare unfold right in front of him.

"I think you already do," he said gently. "Your hearts found each other long before your eyes will but yes I think you'll know. You'll see her blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She's usually in a hoodie and jeans, sometimes that grey beanie with the little rip in it. Backpack slung over one shoulder like she's always halfway to somewhere. But it's not those things, not really. You'll know because when she looks at you, it'll be like the world finally makes sense."

Carina's eyes softened, her cheeks flushed with something like nerves tangled in joy. "We're going to meet," she said, voice full of hope. "We've talked about it, written about it and I think we're both ready now. I hope it's soon."

Jon leaned an elbow on the counter, resting his chin in his palm like he was settling in for a secret. "When it happens I hope it's here. I hope it's in this shop, with the smell of paper and old ink, and the soft hum of silence only broken by the coffee machine." He smiled wistfully. "You deserve to meet in the place you found each other."

Carina laughed gently. "It will be here, you'll have to hide behind a bookshelf and watch if she's easily startled."

"I'll try not to pop out like a raccoon," he teased. "But you leave the rest to me."

She giggled, fiddling with the strap of her bag, and looked back one last time toward the shelves. "This place changed my life."

"I think you both changed each others," Jon said.

Carina's smile lingered as she said goodbye and made her way to the door, a gentle breeze meeting her as she stepped outside into the twilight.

Jon stood still for a long moment then slowly, he reached under the counter and pulled out the camera, the old one, the quiet one, the one that never drew attention. It had long since become part of the scenery, unnoticed by most, and yet it had quietly captured a dozen candid frames of their story already.

Maya, holding her breath with fingers pressed to her lips as she read. Carina, eyes closed in laughter as she clutched a letter to her chest. The book, always the book, resting between them like a secret waiting to be told.

He looked around the store, letting his gaze travel over the walls that told a hundred different stories not in words, but in photographs. Each frame held a raw, unfiltered moment captured by this very camera. People always noticed them, strangers lost in the pages of a novel, wide-eyed children holding their first book, the soft slump of shoulders after a tearful chapter. Happiness, grief, wonder all immortalised in the quiet of black and white.

Carina had commented on them when she first arrived in Seattle, drawn to the honesty in each shot. And Maya, over time, had noticed the subtle rotation where old images were coming down, new ones taking their place, it was like the store itself becoming a living scrapbook of human connection.

Jon had always believed that stories weren't just in books but they were in the faces of those who read them. And now, he was ready to capture the moment two stories became one. He ran his thumb over the shutter.

One day, he thought, maybe on the day they say "I do" or whatever their version of forever looks like he would wrap those photos in a ribbon, tuck a note between the frames and say, "This is where it all began. This is how the story looked when only the margins knew your names."

And when that day came, he hoped they'd see what he saw now, two souls who had loved each other even before their hands ever touched.

So he set the camera on the counter, ready and waiting because when the time came, when they walked through that door, maybe it wouldn't be just letters anymore. Maybe it would be them, together, at long last.

Chapter Text

Andy had decided to stay in Seattle a few extra days, and Maya wasn't exactly surprised. Her best friend had a flair for dramatics, a nose for mischief, and an obsession with playing the overprotective big sister. Add in Maya's first real dive into anything remotely resembling a love life, and it was practically irresistible bait.

"You're lucky I love you," Andy had declared that morning, pulling on a jacket far too nice for casual coffee. "Because I'm about to third-wheel a literal literary romance." She added as if it wasn't entirely her decision to stay.

Maya rolled her eyes but didn't argue. The truth was, she didn't mind Andy staying. They hadn't had time like this in forever, and it was comforting to have her around, grounding, even. Andy had been there through the darkest parts of Maya's life, the chaos and fire and fallout so maybe she deserved to see the soft parts, too.

"I'm warning you now," Maya said as they approached Bellamy's, her voice low with a familiar, protective edge. "When we go in, you find a table, you pick a book, and you pretend you're not here with me. Do not talk to me unless you're literally dying."

Andy raised her hands in surrender, lips twitching. "Relax, Romeo. I'll behave."

"You say that," Maya muttered, pushing the door open and stepping into the warmth and familiarity of her favourite place.

The scent of espresso and old paper wrapped around her like a hug. Her pulse skipped, she always felt it here, that hopeful thrill, like maybe today there'd be a new note waiting, something scribbled just for her. She nodded at Jon behind the counter and turned to Andy.

"Seriously. Table, book, behave." Her eyes narrowed for emphasis.

Andy saluted with mock sincerity. "Yes, ma'am."

But the second Maya disappeared toward the shelves, their shelf, Andy made a beeline for the counter.

"You must be Jon," she said, folding her arms, her voice laced with charm and curiosity.

Jon looked up from wiping the counter, smiling softly. "And you must be the infamous best friend."

"Infamous?" Andy laughed. "I like that."

"She talks about you a lot," Jon added, and there was a kindness in his tone that instantly disarmed Andy. Still, she had a mission.

"So... Carina," Andy said casually, leaning in like she was sharing a secret. "What's her deal?"

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Her deal?"

"Don't get me wrong," Andy said quickly. "Everything Maya's told me sounds like a fairytale. But Maya's well, she's a little heart-blind right now and it's sweet, but someone's gotta look out for her. She's never done this before, she's never felt something like this before. I just need to know that whoever this woman is, she's not going to wreck her."

Jon studied Andy for a moment, then nodded, his voice even. "Carina is... extraordinary. She's kind and thoughtful, she's brilliant. She works in medical research and probably saves lives every day without ever taking credit for it. She comes in after work even when she's exhausted, she will run in before I close up, just to leave Maya a note or check for one. I've seen her cry reading what Maya's written, and I've seen her laugh so loud she had to cover her mouth."

Andy tilted her head, listening closely.

"She's gentle with Maya," Jon continued. "Even in her absence. There's something sacred about the way she handles their book, like it's not just paper and ink but something alive between them. She's never tried to rush this or make it into something it isn't. I don't think I've ever seen two people fall in love this way but if anyone can make it real, it's them."

Andy let out a slow breath. "Wow."

Jon smiled knowingly. "You're protective and that's good. Maya deserves that but so does Carina. She's just as in it as Maya is, maybe more so."

Andy glanced over her shoulder toward the corner where Maya was crouched beside the shelf, fingers trailing along the spines of the books like they were holy relics. She looked calmer here, softer. Happier than Andy had seen her in a long time.

"I guess I just needed to hear it from someone outside the romance bubble," Andy said, turning back. "Thank you."

"Of course," Jon said. "You'll see it for yourself soon enough. They're planning to meet."

Andy smiled despite herself. "That's gonna be one hell of a moment."

Jon nodded, eyes flickering toward his camera resting on the back shelf, already anticipating it.

"Yeah," he murmured. "It really is."

Andy was already seated with a book open by the time Maya turned back toward the café. Suspiciously fast, but Maya didn't question it. She was too busy floating somewhere between nerves and anticipation to notice how Andy had strategically positioned herself, she was tucked in the corner but angled just enough to keep Maya in her line of sight. She felt better now, reassured by Jon's words, but she hadn't entirely abandoned her mission. She'd stick around, maybe just long enough for them to meet.

Maya, across the room, was blissfully unaware of her best friend's silent surveillance. She was crouched by the shelves, her fingers grazing the spines of books like they were old friends. For a few brief moments, she let herself get lost in the titles. What would they read next, she wondered? After Pilgrim at Tinker Creek was finished, would Carina want something poetic or philosophical, maybe something whimsical? Maya didn't know, but the thought thrilled her, the promise of a next, of continuation, of chapters still to come.

Eventually, her hand found its way to their book, their shared story wrapped in borrowed pages. She lifted it with the same reverence she always did, holding it like something sacred. Maya couldn't imagine anyone else owning this copy because it was theirs now, inked with their truths and confessions, echoing with their hopes. She had a feeling deep in her chest that no matter what happened, Jon would never sell this book to anyone else. Not for any price.

She made her way to her usual seat and settled in, her fingertips running across the familiar cover before slipping Carina's letter from the pages. She hadn't even had the chance to open it when a warm mug of hot chocolate appeared beside her.

She looked up to see Jon, placing it down gently.

"Whatever you said made her smile," he said, a knowing softness in his voice.

Maya's eyes widened, heart skipping in the space between surprise and delight. "Really?"

He nodded, his grin fond. "Really. Like a big, dreamy kind of smile. The kind that makes strangers stop and look."

Maya's cheeks flushed. "I asked her to meet," she admitted, eyes flicking down to the sealed letter in her hands. "I told her I didn't want it to be an if anymore."

Jon simply smiled, as if hearing it for the first time, despite knowing full well Carina had told him the very same thing. "Will it be here?"

Maya nodded without hesitation. "It has to be. This is our place and I want the first time I see her to be where it all started." She paused, then added softly, "I hope it's still our place after that, I hope we don't stop coming here."

Jon leaned against the nearby shelf, his expression sincere. "I don't think you ever could, not really. The way you both look at this place, it's not just shelves and coffee, it has memory and meaning, you could meet a hundred times after the first, in a thousand different places, but this?" He gestured around. "This will always be your chapter one."

Maya smiled into her mug, the warmth in her chest matching the heat in her hands. She glanced toward the page again, where Carina's writing waited in soft cursive. She hadn't opened the letter yet, she wanted to savour it, but something told her this one might be different.

Across the room, Andy peeked over the top of her book, watching her best friend cradle a letter like it was the most precious thing in the world. She'd never seen Maya look like this before, so open, and hopeful, soft in a way that made Andy's protective instincts slowly relax. Maybe Carina really was the real deal, maybe Jon was right.

But Andy wasn't going anywhere just yet, not until she saw it for herself.

Maya held the letter like it was breakable. Like if she opened it too fast, too carelessly, it might disappear. She wasn't sure when she started holding her breath, only that she didn't exhale until Carina's handwriting came into view.

From across the café, Andy pretended to read the same page for the fifth time, her eyes flicking up every now and again. She watched the way Maya's face changed, sometimes softening, lighting up, then folding into something gentle and undone. She watched the way Maya's fingers trembled just slightly, and how her eyes kept going back to the same line, as if memorising it.

Maya's lips parted with a breathless laugh when she read the line about the woman who'd mistaken Carina's gasp for a tax bill proposal. A smile broke free, the kind of unguarded, pure joy that cracked something open in Maya's chest. Carina had gasped in public, over her. She pressed her hand to her mouth, like holding in the feeling might somehow preserve it longer.

And the way Carina said I want every version of you.

It hit Maya like a tidal wave, the weight of being chosen. The weight of being wanted despite her edges and quiet chaos, but because of them. She swallowed hard, blinking fast as her eyes burned. Her throat was tight with emotion, but there was laughter bubbling just underneath, especially when Carina joked about retaliating with her high school art. God, how she wanted to see that.

Maya had barely made it through the paragraph about Carina burning mac and cheese, an art form, apparently when a laugh burst out of her, too loud and too sudden. In the process, the cinnamon roll perched on the edge of her plate slipped from her fingers, landing squarely on her lap with a soft, sticky thud. She groaned dramatically, already reaching for a napkin as she looked around in embarrassment. Of course, Jon was the only witness. He stood behind the counter, coffee cup in hand, one brow arched in silent amusement. His mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk dancing at the corners, but he said nothing. Maya narrowed her eyes, dabbing at the frosting with the grace of someone losing a battle, and sighed in defeat. "Not a word," she muttered under her breath, though she knew he'd already catalogued the moment. Still, she couldn't stay embarrassed long, not when Carina's words were waiting so she wiped her lap, smoothed the page, and kept reading with a smile still tugging at her lips.

But then came the quieter lines, the ones that landed right in the hollow of her chest.

You don't have to hide anything from me... I will be here, patient and unwavering, while you learn how to receive love.

Maya didn't realise she was crying until a tear dropped to the corner of the page. She quickly wiped it away, but didn't apologise for it. This was the kind of cry that didn't ask for forgiveness, the kind Carina had already told her was ok.

Her hands paused again when Carina said she didn't want to be just a friend, and Maya had to steady herself. The echo of that truth, of being wanted as more, settled into her bones like a promise. A shy, uncontainable sort of hope glowed in her chest, the kind that made her want to sing or run or just find Carina and kiss the corners of her smile until it became permanent.

When she read about the dream of matching pyjamas and hot chocolate, she bit her lip to stop herself from laughing again. The Christmas Eve blanket fort, the cookies, the markets, it all sounded like a holiday romance movie, except this one wasn't something she was watching, it was hers, it could be theirs.

And then the moment that gutted her completely:
You are lovable when you're quiet, when you're loud, when you're just you.

Maya exhaled shakily, her hand pressed to her heart, as if to keep it from splitting open. She reread that paragraph three times, blinking back tears that kept threatening to spill again.

And when Carina asked simply, So tell me. When? Maya nodded instinctively, mouthing "soon" even though she hadn't said it out loud.

She felt like the room was spinning in the best possible way, like someone had taken the heavy, hidden parts of her and lifted them into the light. And Carina, she hadn't flinched, she'd stayed, she'd written all this for her.

Maya traced the words forever yours with her fingertip, as if touching them could make them more real. Her breath caught in her throat, not from shock, but from something deeper, something warm and overwhelming. No one had ever said that to her before. Not like this, not with such certainty. She smiled through fresh tears, pressing the letter to her chest. "I'm yours too," she whispered to no one but the quiet, to the pages, to Carina, wherever she was.

From the corner, Andy watched it all, the tears, the smile, the moment Maya physically clutched the letter to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her grounded and maybe it was. Andy had never seen her best friend like this, not ever. And in that moment, her doubts quieted ever so slightly.

She didn't know Carina, not yet, but now she'd seen enough now to believe Maya did.

Maya opened the book, fingers resting softly on the familiar cover, her pulse quickening with anticipation. She wasn't trying to find anything specific, just the next chapter, the next shared breath between pages but her fingers landed on a passage she remembered writing in the quiet, alone, her heart barely able to admit the truth to the page. It wasn't a quote Carina had underlined. It wasn't even a well-known passage.

-Is this what love feels like? I've never known it before. But I don't have another word big enough to hold this feeling.-

And there, next to it, in the curved, careful handwriting that now felt more familiar than her own, was Carina's reply. A heart drawn lovingly, and inside it, a single word.

-yes-

Maya didn't even try to stop the tears. They came hard and fast, spilling down her cheeks in quiet sobs she didn't bother hiding. She slammed the book shut, not in anger, but as if she could trap the moment, protect it somehow and let her head fall back against the chair. Her eyes closed, her lips parted, her chest rising with the force of trying to contain something so big it had nowhere to go but out through tears.

Andy, from across the room, shifted slightly in her seat. She didn't need to say anything, she just watched, eyes softening as she realised the depth of what Maya had found in this woman, in this book, in these words. This wasn't just a crush or a fleeting romance. This was something soul-deep. And for all her protective instincts, even Andy couldn't deny that what was unfolding before her was real.

Jon didn't move either. He simply watched from behind the counter, having seen every stage of this growing connection unfold through the expressions Maya never quite hid. This wasn't the first time she cried over Carina. But somehow, it felt like it might be the most important.

Maya took a deep breath, wiping her eyes, before reopening the book with trembling hands, flipping past the earlier pages to chapter 11. She scanned the familiar lines she had underlined, her eyes quickly finding her own note beside the quote.

"There is a holiness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues."

Maya had written:

-This is us. We are not broken because we cry, we are powerful because we continued, we are worshipping our own strength.-

And Carina had replied:

-I've cried a thousand tears over you, Maya. But not out of weakness and never out of sadness. Every single one has been from love, from joy, from finding you and from belonging. From the weight of feeling seen and chosen and safe. If this is worship, I am on my knees for you.-

Maya's chest clenched. Her breath stuttered. Worship. She didn't know a word could hit her like that, but it did. It made her feel sacred, like loving and being loved by Carina was a holy act.

The next quote came just a few pages later.

"Passion is the only price of knowing the depths of belonging."

Maya had written:

-Our ink, our notes, our sacred confessions, they are our small fires of belonging and I feel it in every beat of my heart.-

Carina's reply was immediate, as though she'd never hesitated to write it.

-I belong to you, Maya. To every word, every margin, every letter. I belong to you with a fire that burns in my blood, with my whole being. You are where I feel most like myself.-

She pressed her palm flat against the page, her skin aching to touch Carina instead. Belonging. It wasn't a word Maya ever thought would be for her but now, it was. Now, she had it, it had a name, and eyes she hadn't yet seen in person but dreamed about constantly.

But it was Carina's response to the final quote from that chapter nearly undid her.

"Love is the most creative of passions, capable of stirring the world with a single gesture."

Maya had scribbled:

-Our notes, our letters. The way your handwriting finds mine, a single gesture that stirs my whole world.-

And Carina had answered:

-Every gesture, every word, every trace of you stirs my world too. I will never stop, Maya. Not the notes, not the letters, not this feeling. Whether it's ink on napkins, a flower on your pillow, or kisses left on your collarbone, I will continue for as long as I live.-

Maya's hand went straight to her collarbone, fingertips brushing the skin as if she could conjure the feeling. She could see it in her mind so vividly, Carina's soft lips, breath warm, hands framing her face like she was art. Her eyes fluttered closed. She could almost feel it, not just the kiss, but the safety of it, the promise. That's what she longed for, Carina's physical presence, not just her words, but her hands, her voice, her laugh up close.

A bell jingled at the door, Maya's head snapped up, breath caught. For a brief, wild second she thought, almost hoped that it might be her. It wasn't, the woman who entered was tall and brunette, close in age, beautiful even, but Maya knew she wasn't Carina.

She exhaled, long and slow, and turned to chapter 12.

It wasn't filled with as many notes, but what it lacked in volume, it more than made up for in meaning.

"What I see sets me reeling; I didn't know I could see that well. I didn't know there was so much to see."

Carina had written:

-That's what you've done to me. You've opened a world I didn't know I could see, a softness I didn't know I deserved. You make everything brighter, clearer, you make me feel more alive.-

Maya's eyes stung with the truth of it. She had never felt like a source of light for someone before. Her entire life had been built on action, movement, achievement, pushing herself harder. But here, Carina was speaking of softness, of being seen, of feeling alive because of her. She ran her fingers gently along the edge of the page and picked up her pen. Just beneath Carina's words, she wrote:

-It feels like a dream, but I know it's not. I've lived so much of my life wondering if I'd ever be enough for someone to look at me like this, to see me the way you do. And now? Now I get to see myself through your eyes and for the first time, I don't feel like I have to keep running. I just want to stay, here, with you.-

She pressed her hand to the page, as if it could travel the distance between them, and lingered there for a long moment before turning the next.

Then came the quote that gripped something deep inside her.

"The pain of leaving the river is nothing to the pain of not having known it."

Carina's response was tender, and brave.

-If this ends, if we lose whatever this is becoming, it will hurt, it would hurt more than I can imagine. But not trying? That would be a sorrow I couldn't bear because you are already part of me, Maya. I'd rather hurt from knowing you than from the ache of never trying.-

Maya blinked through fresh tears. She knew what it meant to fear something beautiful breaking apart. But more than anything, she wanted Carina to know she was safe here. That this wasn't temporary, not unless either of them made it so. And she never would.

She steadied her hand and replied:

-It only ends if we want it to and I don't. Not now, not ever. I'm not walking away, Carina. I'll hold this with everything I have. I want to protect it, I want to protect you, I want to be the reason you never have to wonder if love is safe again.-

Her writing blurred slightly as she fought off the tears again. The love she felt for this woman, this stranger she knew more intimately than anyone, was beginning to feel like a force too large for paper. But still, she kept going.

Then came the last quote of the chapter.

"This is it, I think, this is what I want to see: the present moment, the ordinary moment, the moment that is."

Carina had written:

-If I had only one wish, it would be this, to share the ordinary with you. The quiet mornings and the late nights. The middle of the day laughter and the exhausted silences. You are the moment I want, you are the now I didn't know I was waiting for.-

Maya could barely breathe. Her hand trembled as she brought her pen down once more.

-I will make that wish come true because that's what I want too. All of it. But the thing is, I don't know how anything with you could ever be ordinary. Even if we're just folding laundry or brushing our teeth in the same bathroom, it'll be the kind of ordinary I want to relive a hundred times over. I think we'll have years and years of extraordinary ordinary moments... just because we'll be in them together.-

She sat back, chest tight and full at the same time. Her eyes scanned the rest of the chapter, looking for one final place, one final thought to give something of herself back. A quote that didn't belong to either of them yet. Something she could offer, something new.

Her gaze landed on a line, soft and unassuming but powerful in its truth.

"The least we can do is try to make some sense of the life we're given."

Maya underlined it slowly, thoughtfully, and beside it, she wrote:

-I've spent so long trying to make sense of myself, of the parts that feel too loud or too quiet, too much or not enough. But you've made it clearer, Carina, you've helped me start to make sense of it all, not by changing me, but by accepting me. I want to spend a lifetime doing the same for you.-

She set the pen down gently and closed the book, her hand lingering over the worn cover. Somewhere inside these pages, they had created something sacred. Something hers, something theirs.

And she couldn't wait for the day she would turn to the next chapter with Carina sitting beside her, not just in heart, but in body, in laughter, in presence.

Maya looked across the room and met Andy's gaze, her best friend was watching her with a softness Maya hadn't seen in years. Andy's eyes shimmered with tears, but they weren't from worry or sadness. They were warm and knowing. She gave Maya a small, proud smile, and Maya returned it, her heart full to the brim.

Her eyes fell back to the book in her hands, their book. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, worn at the edges now, softened by every touch, every shared note, every page passed between them. This book had become more than just a story, it was a vessel, a witness, the quiet and constant thread that tied her heart to someone else's. In just a few months, a single note in the margins had cracked her heart open to something she never thought she'd have.

Maya turned the pages slowly, gently, like each one held something sacred.

Chapter 13.

She didn't read it all in order at first, she let her fingers move freely through the paper, letting instinct guide her. She wasn't just looking for words, she was searching for truth. For something real, something she could leave behind not to say "I love you," those were words to save for the right time, but to say "here is the softest, most hidden part of me please keep it safe."

This wasn't about filling space in the margins or to meet some quiet expectation they'd created. It was intentional and purposeful. Maya wanted to leave behind something Carina could feel when she found it.

She paused, reading a line that made her breath catch in her chest.

"You don't run down the present, pursue it with baited hooks and nets. You wait for it, empty-handed, and you are filled."

Her fingers hovered there for a moment before reaching for her pen. Slowly, she wrote beneath it:

-That's what I've done with you, I waited, empty and unsure, aching in places I didn't even know had names and then you came. Quietly and softly, and now, I'm full. Not just with love, but with hope. With the kind of warmth I thought wasn't meant for me.-

She pressed her palm to the paper for a moment, sealing it.

Then she kept reading.

It was strange how the words of someone long gone could hold a space for the love she was only just beginning to understand. Like the book had always known this would happen, two women, two pens, writing each other into being.

"Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery."

That one stilled her entirely. She stared at it, her heartbeat echoing through her ribs. She reached for her pen again.

-If that's true, then you are the most vivid part of my tracing. You are where the line deepens and where the faintness becomes color. You are the place where the mystery of life suddenly makes sense. Where it feels like everything I've lived through had to happen just to bring me here, to you.-

She sat back, letting the words settle in her chest. Her thumb brushed along the corner of the page, almost like she could feel Carina's future presence there, like her hand might land there next, like they were touching time together.

One more, she thought. She wanted to leave one more for her to find.

She flipped ahead and landed softly on a line that made her eyes sting without warning.

"We are people; we are minds and ideas in the stream of time. We are beings dying in time, but the words, the ideas, the stories, go on."

It was raw. Honest. Human. It felt like her.

-If all we ever were was this, these words, these notes, these pieces of ourselves passed through ink, I think I'd still feel like the luckiest woman alive. But I want more, Carina. I want us outside these pages. I want the moments, the time, the life. Let's become the story that continues on.-

The pen trembled slightly in her fingers as she finished the note. There was something terrifying about being this bare on a page but also freeing. These weren't just quotes or underlined fragments anymore. They were her. They were the bones of her heart left open on paper, waiting for Carina to find them.

She closed the book slowly, almost reverently, her hand lingering on the cover. It wasn't just a story anymore. It was their story and with every margin, every note, every quote, Maya was carving out her place inside it. Leaving behind her love not in grand declarations, but in honest, unguarded truths.

She looked across the café. Jon had gone quiet behind the counter, a soft smile resting on his face. Andy was still nearby, pretending to read, but Maya knew she'd seen her, she had seen this, whatever it was and that was okay. For the first time, Maya didn't feel afraid of being seen.

She hoped, no, she knew, Carina would read those words and feel it too.

And when she did, when she turned to the page and saw the truth of Maya's soul scribbled there for her alone, maybe Carina would be willing to walk through that door and Maya would be waiting for her.

She had always convinced herself she wasn't someone people stayed for. That being enough meant earning it. Andy had always been there, she had always loved her but Maya had longed for something different, something deeper. An all-consuming kind of love. A choose me every time kind of love, a someone to come home to kind of love. She wanted someone who would take her messy and magnificent, someone she could fall apart with and build a future alongside.

And now, somehow, that kind of love was right in front of her, in ink, in paper, in passion, in Carina.

She picked up the letter again, her hands trembling just slightly as she re-read the words that had undone her the first time she read it,

Forever yours

Maya closed her eyes and took a breath so full of hope it nearly hurt. Those words weren't just poetic, they were a promise. A yes. A want. A waited for.

She opened her eyes, glanced once more at Andy, who gave her a small but encouraging nod and then she smiled to herself. She was ready.

No more waiting. No more holding back. The idea of seeing Carina, of really seeing her and hearing her voice, brushing her fingers and watching her smile unfold in real time, was no longer something she could just imagine. It was something she needed.

She reached into her bag, pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery, and clicked her pen open. There would be time for poetry, time for emotion, but first, she had to ask.

Just seven words she needed to put down on paper,

Do you want to meet this weekend?

Her heart fluttered wildly as she stared at the page.

Dear Carina,

First of all... how dare you.

How dare you write a letter that completely destroyed me in the softest possible way? I cried, I laughed, I clutched the book to my chest like it was a lifeline. I think at one point I even whispered your name out loud like you were sitting beside me. (Spoiler: you weren't but I checked. Twice.)

I read it once and felt my heart crack open then I read it again and felt it stitch back together, only this time it felt softer, fuller, like it was held together with your words. You said the space between us feels smaller now and Carina, I feel it too. Sometimes I swear I can feel you here. In the way the pages feel warmer when I hold them. In the way your handwriting curves like a secret only I get to keep. You are everywhere.

You said you want all of me, every version, well, you have all of me already. You've had me since the first note, probably even before that, honestly and I want all of you in return. The messy hair, morning breath, dancing-in-the-kitchen Carina. The science-brained, heart-spilled-all-over-the-place, espresso-loving, burnt-mac-and-cheese-making Carina. The one who gasps in cafés over romantic letters and makes strangers question whether proposals are happening over pastries.

I want all of her.

And I want her this weekend.

Okay, okay, let me rewind before I get ahead of myself. I promise I'm not trying to pressure you into anything, I know we've taken our time, written the story slowly and sweetly and exactly the way we were meant to. But now? I think it's time for the next page or maybe the next chapter. One where you walk through the door and I get to say your name out loud, without letters between us. I want to look into your eyes and say everything I've written to you. I want to see your smile in real time, not just imagine it. I want to hold you.

I need to hold you.

So maybe this weekend?

You pick the day, you pick the time. I will be there, I swear it. No matter what, I'll sit in this café from sunrise to closing if I have to. I promise to come with my heart on my sleeve, my arms wide open, and I will hold you for as long as you'll let me. You don't have to say anything grand, you don't even have to explain your decision, just tell me if and when, and I'll be there.

And please, please don't worry about being too much. You said you were scared of that, and Carina, if you knew how deeply I feel for you, how much I want more of you, you'd never question it again. You are never too much, you are everything I've ever hoped for and then some. You've already changed my life in every way that matters and I'm still trying to believe this is real.

Now, a few responses, because you know I can't let your letter go unanswered:

Your pasta/baking/burning-mac-and-cheese chaos? Absolutely iconic. I love it and I want to see it for myself. I want to sit in your kitchen and watch you move around like you were born to feed the world and then very gently steer you away from the mac and cheese because it turns out I make a killer one. Maybe that's the deal: you make the lasagna, I make the mac & cheese. We can meet in the middle and eat everything with our fingers while laughing through flour-smeared faces.

You made me laugh again when you wrote about nearly choking on espresso. Please don't do that. I need you around to keep writing me sappy, sarcastic letters for years to come. I promise never to call you "just a friend." Not ever, I don't even know what word is big enough for what we are, but I told Andy that you're my person and I meant it.

Also, I am so in for Christmas pyjamas, skating, cookies, and the world's cheesiest ornament. I will help you find it and I'll even pretend I like peppermint hot chocolate if it means cuddling under a blanket with you. You said this was the year everything changed and I believe that with my whole heart.

Your question about my sketching? Yes, I laughed. The way you make it sound like I'm hiding a gallery of masterpieces somewhere is hilarious. I promise I'm not that cool. It's one sketchbook, almost ten years old, usually pieces that I obsess over for months. Scenes from parks, different landscapes, some rooftops, things that feel still. Things that feel like home. I don't usually draw people, I have drawn animals from photos I've taken but maybe one day I'll draw you. If you'll let me.

And yes, I want to keep writing even after we meet. Can we agree on that? Even if we're side by side, I want to keep slipping little letters into your pockets or scrawling notes on napkins. I want letters in lunch boxes and sticky notes on the bathroom mirror. I want to keep our margins alive, I want to always have something sweet waiting between the pages.

And about Italy? I'm relieved that you're not ready to leave and that you might stay. I want to be a reason you stay, I want to be your home here. I want to give you a soft place to land and arms that feel like the safest thing you've ever known. You said I'm your joy and your home? But you are mine, Carina and you always will be.

And Carina... you are lovable too. Always. I don't care what anyone ever told you, you are not too much or not enough. You're not something to be fixed or changed or made to fit into anyone else's story. You're my story, my joy and my safe place. You are loved, exactly as you are.

Yes to all the places. Yes to all the ordinary days and the extraordinary ones. Yes to the errands, and lazy mornings, and hot drinks at Bellamy's. And yes, a thousand times yes, to the notes. I hope we never stop writing to each other even when we're sharing the same bed, I still want to slip letters under your pillow because you will always be worth writing to

And maybe someday, we'll go to Italy together. But for now, I'm so thankful your journey led you here and I hope it continues to lead you to me. If you want a home here, I want to be it. I want to be the soft place you land, the breath you can take and the arms you come home to.

But here's the part that undid me completely:

"Forever yours."

I had to stop reading because my heart was pounding to the point I couldn't even breathe. You signed your name and gave me a piece of forever and I swear, I'll carry those words with me always. You are the first person who's ever made forever feel like something I want. Something I can have. Something I deserve.

So here's mine, in return. My promise and my truth.

Also yours forever,
Maya

P.S. Just say when.

P.P.S. I'm going to try find new Christmas pyjamas in September. Just in case.

P.P.P.S. You're not the only one with sticky fingers now, I may or may not have dropped an entire cinnamon roll on myself today in a hot chocolate haze. Jon may have witnessed it. We do not speak of it.

Maya slipped the envelope carefully into the book, pressing it into place with reverence, like a prayer folded into parchment. She ran her fingers along the spine one last time before returning it to its place on the shelf, tucked safely between poetry and possibility.

Andy stood and joined her, her presence quiet but steady. As they turned to leave, Maya paused at the counter where Jon waited with that same knowing expression he always wore when their hearts had been left on the page.

"I asked if she wants to meet this weekend," Maya said, her voice light, trembling only slightly under the weight of everything it meant.

Jon's eyes softened. He nodded, slow and certain. "It's time," he said. "And I think she knows it too."

Andy glanced between them, skeptical but supportive. "Are you sure, May?"

Maya smiled, a real one this time. "I've never been more sure of anything. I love this, what we've had, the letters, the notes, the way we've found each other in the margins. But I need her now in more than just in ink and paper. I need her in all the ways we've talked about. I want the vacations and the holiday traditions and the lazy Sunday mornings. I want the brushing our teeth at the sink together, the holding hands in the grocery store. I want her next to me in real time."

She paused, the edges of her voice curling with hope and quiet fear. "If it's not meant to be, that's okay. I'll survive it. I'll be grateful for everything we shared. But I need to know, I can't stay halfway anymore. I want the whole thing, or I have to let her go."

Jon nodded again, his smile kind. "She'll say yes. I believe that but I know she needs to say it for herself." He placed his hand on top of hers on the counter, grounding them both. "Just know, I'll be here, whatever you two need. If you want to sit in that corner all night, I'll keep the lights on. You've both got a space here, always."

Maya felt her chest swell, full with the comfort of being seen. She turned her hand, squeezing Jon's hand briefly. "Thank you."

She and Andy stepped outside into the cool evening air, the sky hanging low with the kind of softness that only came after a day like this, where your soul had been turned inside out in the most beautiful way.

Andy nudged her gently as they started walking. "Okay, romantic heroine, but serious question..."

Maya turned her head.

Andy grinned. "What are you going to wear?"

Maya laughed, loud and free, as if she hadn't just handed her heart to a book. "Oh god. I have no idea."

Chapter Text

It was late by the time Carina pushed open the door to Bellamy's, the bell above the door offering its soft chime like a familiar welcome. The shop was quiet, bathed in the warm glow of evening light and that ever-comforting scent of aged paper and espresso beans. Behind the counter, Jon looked up with his usual smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth like he was in on a secret too good to keep.

"You're here," he said gently.

"I'm sorry it's so late again," Carina replied, brushing her hair behind her ear. She always said it, even though she knew he never minded.

Jon just chuckled, pouring water into the espresso machine. "I live upstairs and I've got nowhere else to be. Besides, watching this unfold between you two?" He smiled, "feels like being part of a once in a lifetime story."

Carina felt her cheeks flush as she dipped her head shyly as Jon nodded toward the shelves.

"She left something for you," he said. "Go ahead. I'll bring your espresso over."

Carina didn't hesitate. Her feet carried her to the familiar corner of the store like they had memorised the path, drawn by a magnetism she didn't fully understand but never questioned. She found their book easily and eased it from the shelf.

She sat down in her usual oversized seat by the window. Nestled inside the pages was an envelope.

She considered waiting a moment, letting the quiet settle a bit more. But something in her heart said don't wait.

She opened it.

First of all... how dare you.

Carina gasped, what? before her eyes scanned quickly ahead.

How dare you write a letter that completely destroyed me in the softest possible way?

She laughed softly, relief washing over her. Maya had loved the letter. Her smile grew impossibly wide as she read on.

She'd cried, apparently but she had laughed too. Even held the book like it could anchor her. The image of Maya whispering her name out loud and checking to see if she was really there made Carina's heart ache in the best way. She smiled to herself, blinking back tears. There was something so intimate about being missed like that, about being longed for so openly.

As she kept reading, her smile only grew.

Maya had written about wanting all of her. Every version, even the burnt-mac-and-cheese, emotional-in-cafés, flour-smudged one. She didn't ask for perfection, she just wanted her, all of her, the messy version, the soft heart, the real her.

And then came the part that made Carina freeze. Her breath caught in her throat.

And I want her this weekend.

Her heart stopped. "Oh."

A breath. A pause. Then she gasped out loud.

This weekend.

The tears came faster now, falling freely. Her hands shook as she kept reading, scanning Maya's words like they were breath and water.

I need to hold you, So maybe this weekend?

Carina clutched the letter to her chest, her answer immediate, visceral, certain,

"Yes. Yes, Maya. As soon as possible," she whispered into the empty shop.

She wanted to write Saturday morning right now. Maybe she'd get the whole weekend, if Maya would have her. And god, did she want to be in Maya's arms.

She wanted to see her, not in imagined shapes or scribbled handwriting but in real time. She wanted to look into Maya's eyes, to hear her voice as it said her name. To wrap her arms around her and feel that warmth she'd only dreamed of.

You are never too much... You are everything I've ever hoped for.

And with that, every lingering fear in Carina's chest dissolved because Maya saw her. Maya wanted her, all of her just like Carina wanted Maya.

She reached the part about the mac and cheese and laughed all over again.

You make the lasagna, I make the mac & cheese. We can meet in the middle and eat everything with our fingers while laughing through flour-smeared faces.

Carina could see it. Their kitchen, their laughter, Maya covered in flour trying to dodge her spoon. The picture of it was so vivid, she had to close her eyes to steady herself.

She laughed at Maya's espresso-choking confession and Maya's certainty that she'd never be called just a friend. It felt light and sweet and perfectly them.

I told Andy you're my person.

Carina clutched the letter tighter, whispering, "You're mine too."

And then she reached the part that melted her all over again.

Also, I am so in for Christmas pyjamas, skating, cookies, and the world's cheesiest ornament... I believe this is the year everything changed.

Carina closed her eyes and imagined Maya's arms wrapped around her under a blanket. She could see her, the blonde hair, the soft blue eyes. She imagined Maya's scent, maybe coconut, maybe something warm and vanilla. And that smile, she just knew Maya's smile would ruin her in the best way.

She laughed at Maya's sketching description, immediately picturing her hunched over a ten-year-old sketchpad obsessing over rooftops. The idea of Maya sketching while she took photos made her heart stutter.

Maybe one day I'll draw you.

"Please do," she whispered aloud. "I'd let you see all of me."

When Maya talked about still writing even after they met, the lunch box letters and sticky notes, Carina laughed through a sob. "You'll be lucky if I don't wallpaper our place with your notes." She thought to herself.

Then came the final stretch, the part where Maya promised not just to be present but to be her home.

If you want a home here, I want to be it. I want to be the soft place you land, the breath you can take and the arms you come home to.

"I do," she said aloud. "I want you."

Carina dissolved, pressing her forehead to the letter. The tears came hard and fast now, but her smile stayed wide, even through the sobs.

"You are mine," she whispered into the quiet. "And I'm yours."

Then she read Maya's final promise:

Also yours forever,
Maya

The "P.S." about Christmas pyjamas made her laugh, the idea of Maya in stores looking for matching Christmas Pyjamas in the month of September. The "P.P.S." about cinnamon rolls made her laugh harder, she didn't know the story but she planned to ask Jon.

She was still laughing through her tears when Jon appeared and sat beside her quietly.

She didn't need to say anything more than, "This weekend."

Jon smiled, already knowing. "She can't wait any longer," he said softly. "She wants everything you talk about. She loves your notes, Carina but she's craving you."

Carina let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I... I want to say yes. I am saying yes. I just"

"You're scared," Jon offered, no judgment in his voice.

She nodded. "Terrified," she admitted. "Not of her. Just... of how badly I want this. How much I already feel, I want to hug her and never let go, and I'm not sure how I'll ever be able to."

"You won't have to," Jon said softly. "Not if she feels the same."

Carina's eyes met his. "Do you think she does? Really?"

Jon smiled gently. "I know she does. She's been walking around this shop like a woman who's falling in love line by line. She laughs when she reads your letters. She looks at your words like they're the most precious things she's ever held."

Carina tilted her head, curious. "Yeah?," Jon simply nodded.

Carina wiped her eyes. "I'm ready too. I want it all. The good, the bad, the awkward, the beautiful. I want to be hers, Jon, I just want to see her and run straight into her arms." She paused, her voice catching. "Do you think she really will be there... waiting with open arms?"

Jon didn't hesitate. "Without question," he said. "I don't think she'll let you go once you're in them."

Carina smiled again, heart thudding wildly in her chest. She was so close to everything she'd ever wanted.

She glanced at him sideways. "Now... the cinnamon roll story?"

Jon chuckled. "Only if you promise not to tell her I told you."

"I promise," Carina grinned, wiping her face again.

He leaned in, "She was reading, right over there," he gestured to the armchair, "laughing out loud like you'd just told the world's best joke. She knocked her cinnamon roll clean into her lap, icing side down, naturally."

Carina gasped, then burst out laughing.

"She froze," Jon continued, grinning. "Looked around like a kid caught stealing cookies. Of course, I was the only one who saw because I always see everything and she just picked it up with a napkin, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, 'Not. A. Word.'"

They were both laughing now, the kind that left their cheeks flushed and their eyes glistening.

"I can't wait to hold her," Carina whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Jon's smile softened again. "She'll be here, Carina, with open arms waiting just for you. She wants the same things you do. The messy, the magical, the in-between. You're not just something she's hoping for. You're someone she's already chosen."

Carina's heart swelled. "I want to run into her arms the second I see her."

"Then do it," Jon said. "Don't hold back because she won't."

Carina looked down at the book, the letter now safely tucked back between the pages.

"I think I'll ask for Saturday morning," she said softly, almost to herself. "She said she's free all weekend so if we meet Saturday morning, maybe I can spend the whole weekend with her."

Jon gave her a soft smile as he stood knowing that it was unlikely these two would spend a day apart ever again after meeting. He stretched slightly as he looked toward the window. "I'll start locking up," he said gently, his voice never quite breaking the comforting quiet of the space. "Take your time. There's no rush. I'm not going anywhere until you're done for the evening."

Carina nodded, the letter still clutched close to her chest like it was part of her. "Thank you," she whispered.

And she meant it, not just for the espresso or the shelter of this bookshop but for everything. For the way he stayed just long enough without hovering. For the way he listened without judgement. For the way he'd quietly become a kind of father figure here, someone who offered the comfort of presence even when words weren't needed. He watched her fall in love in quiet chapters, and he never once rushed the ending.

She looked back down at the letter, tempted to fall into a daydream she knew would sweep her away. She could almost feel the weight of Maya's arms around her already, warm and sure. She imagined the way Maya might laugh softly against her neck, or how it might feel to finally press their foreheads together after all this time. She imagined her hands resting on Maya's waist, their fingers lacing instinctively, as if they'd always belonged there.

She wanted to stay in that dream.

But she wouldn't keep Jon here all night. Not when she still had things to read, words to answer, promises to whisper into paper.

Gently, she opened their book and flipped back to Chapter 12, where her handwriting waited for her. Her breath hitched slightly when she saw the first highlighted quote, she had remembered reading it for the first time.

"What I see sets me reeling; I didn't know I could see that well. I didn't know there was so much to see."

She had written beneath it:

-That's what you've done to me. You've opened a world I didn't know I could see, a softness I didn't know I deserved. You make everything brighter, clearer, you make me feel more alive.-

Carina smiled at the memory of how those words had spilled out of her, an unfiltered truth. And there, beneath her note, Maya had replied with a vulnerability so tender it made Carina's heart twist.

Maya said she wasn't running anymore, not since Carina. She said it felt like a dream, but she believed in it now because she believed in them.

Carina could feel the warmth of Maya's hope wrapped inside those words. She wanted that too, a world where they could both just be, without fear. She traced the edge of Maya's reply with her fingertip and let the quiet settle over her.

Then, she moved to the next.

"The pain of leaving the river is nothing to the pain of not having known it."

She remembered pausing on that one, her chest was tight as she wrote:

-If this ends, if we lose whatever this is becoming, it will hurt, it would hurt more than I can imagine. But not trying? That would be a sorrow I couldn't bear because you are already part of me, Maya. I'd rather hurt from knowing you than from the ache of never trying.-

Maya had met that fear with a promise.

-It only ends if we want it to and I don't. Not now, not ever. I'm not walking away, Carina. I'll hold this with everything I have. I want to protect it, I want to protect you, I want to be the reason you never have to wonder if love is safe again.-

It only ends if we want it to, she said and she didn't want it to, not now, not ever. She wanted to hold this, to protect it, to protect her. She wanted to be the reason Carina never had to question if love could be safe again.

Carina's vision blurred slightly as she wiped under her eyes. Maya's words were always like that, both balm and burn. They comforted her while stirring up something so deep it made her want to cry and laugh in the same breath.

She sniffled, smiling, and turned to the last one she'd left.

"This is it, I think, this is what I want to see: the present moment, the ordinary moment, the moment that is."

Beneath it, she had written:

-If I had only one wish, it would be this, to share the ordinary with you. The quiet mornings and the late nights. The middle of the day laughter and the exhausted silences. You are the moment I want, you are the now I didn't know I was waiting for.-

And Maya, as always, had met her there.

-I will make that wish come true because that's what I want too. All of it. But the thing is, I don't know how anything with you could ever be ordinary. Even if we're just folding laundry or brushing our teeth in the same bathroom, it'll be the kind of ordinary I want to relive a hundred times over. I think we'll have years and years of extraordinary ordinary moments... just because we'll be in them together.-

She'd written that even folding laundry or brushing their teeth together would feel extraordinary, simply because they'd be doing it side by side. Maya wasn't after grandeur or fantasy, she just wanted something real. She wanted shared glances over morning coffee and quiet handholds in grocery store aisles.

Carina couldn't stop the grin that broke across her face because that's what she wanted too. It was never about the spectacular for her, not really. It was about the shared silence after long days, about laughter over spilled sauce, about feeling seen in the smallest, most mundane moments.

Then her eyes caught something she hadn't seen before, a quote she hadn't marked, but Maya had left for her.

"The least we can do is try to make some sense of the life we're given."

Maya's handwriting curved beneath it:

-I've spent so long trying to make sense of myself, of the parts that feel too loud or too quiet, too much or not enough. But you've made it clearer, Carina, you've helped me start to make sense of it all, not by changing me, but by accepting me. I want to spend a lifetime doing the same for you.-

Carina stared at those words, her throat tight. A lifetime. It wasn't said casually and for once, she didn't feel the panic that word used to bring.

She didn't answer right away. She just sat with it, letting it settle. Then she picked up her pen, and simply wrote beneath it:

-I want a lifetime with you too.-

She paused, fingers curled loosely around the pen, and closed her eyes. Her whole chest ached with hope.

And then she turned the page, flipping gently to Chapter 13, praying that Maya had continued reading on.

Carina couldn't help the smile that pulled across her face as she turned the page.

Of course Maya had kept reading. Of course she had left pieces of herself behind in Chapter 13 too.

But still... it made Carina's heart flutter every single time.

Every note, every underlined phrase, every little mark Maya left behind in their shared book felt like a spark, something small but powerful that lit something deep inside her. Carina didn't think she'd ever get used to it, and she didn't think she'd ever want to. She hadn't even known it was possible to feel this seen, this wanted, this softly loved.

And now? She couldn't imagine her life without Maya in it.

She couldn't imagine loving anyone else. She never thought she'd fall for a woman, not because she hadn't considered it, but because it just hadn't happened, it hasn't been allowed. No one had cracked her open and made her want to be seen, not until Maya. Now it felt laughable to picture herself with anyone else.

She didn't have experience with women. She didn't know if she'd get it all right the first time or say the right things or touch her in all the right ways but God, she hoped Maya wouldn't care. She just wanted to love her, to learn her, to be gentle, and honest, and to make sure Maya always knew she was loved the way she deserved.

The first quote underlined in Chapter 13 made her pause:

"You don't run down the present, pursue it with baited hooks and nets. You wait for it, empty-handed, and you are filled."

Maya had written beneath:

-That's what I've done with you. I waited, empty and unsure, aching in places I didn't even know had names and then you came. Quietly and softly, and now, I'm full. Not just with love, but with hope. With the kind of warmth I thought wasn't meant for me.-

Carina's breath caught. Quietly and softly had become their words, their own language.

It made sense now more than ever.

Carina ran her fingers lightly over Maya's handwriting, the pads of her fingers tingling with affection.

She reached for her pen and wrote beneath it:

-This is meant for us, Maya. This isn't fleeting, It's not a temporary kind of full, instead it's a forever kind of full. This feeling isn't going anywhere because I'm not going anywhere.-

She hoped Maya could feel the certainty in her words.

The second underlined quote read:

"Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery."

Carina let that one sit for a moment. She loved that line, but reading Maya's note beneath it made it feel deeper, more intimate, more alive.

-If that's true, then you are the most vivid part of my tracing. You are where the line deepens and where the faintness becomes color. You are the place where the mystery of life suddenly makes sense. Where it feels like everything I've lived through had to happen just to bring me here, to you.-

Carina's eyes stung again, her chest warm with something that pulsed like sunlight. Maya saw her as something vivid, something bright. Carina didn't always feel that way especially not in the quiet spaces of her own mind. But Maya? Maya made her believe it.

She picked up her pen again:

-You are my colour, Maya. I think my whole life before you was just black and white. Now everything feels different like I'm really seeing the world for the first time and I want to keep seeing it, with you by my side.-

Her heart thudded in her chest.

She turned the page to the end of the chapter where one final underlined quote waited for her:

"We are people; we are minds and ideas in the stream of time. We are beings dying in time, but the words, the ideas, the stories, go on."

Carina exhaled softly.

Beneath it, Maya had written:

-If all we ever were was this, these words, these notes, these pieces of ourselves passed through ink, I think I'd still feel like the luckiest woman alive. But I want more, Carina. I want us outside these pages. I want the moments, the time, the life. Let's become the story that continues on.-

Carina pressed her hand to her heart. She felt like it was about to leap from her chest.

And with her other hand, she picked up her pen, her thoughts spilling out without hesitation:

-I feel like the luckiest woman alive too, Maya. But I want more. I want you in every way that exists outside these pages. I want your skin against mine, your lips on mine, your hand in mine. I want to hear your laugh, not just read about it. I want to watch your eyes crinkle when you smile and feel the weight of your arms around me.-

She hesitated for a moment before writing the next part:

-I think I need you now, Maya. It's not just want but something I need. Like needing air to breathe, like needing light to see. Your like something essential I need to continue living. I need to know what it feels like when you say my name out loud. I need the story that begins outside this book.-

She read over her response, her hands trembling slightly as she closed the book.

The letter still sat near her, already folded, already treasured and she smiled again, the kind that reached her eyes and made her cheeks hurt. Maya wanted it too, they were both ready for their story to continue outside of ink and paper.

Carina ran her fingers down the worn edge of the book, her thumb pressing into the spine as she turned the page to Chapter 14. Her heart was still warm from reading Maya's thoughts in the previous chapter, the weight of Maya's words lingering in her chest like a soft, steady heartbeat.

It felt like she was opening a new door, one they hadn't stepped through yet, but maybe they would, soon.

The café was nearly silent, the only sounds a soft creak of wood and the gentle click of Jon locking one of the side cupboards. He caught her eye briefly and gave a small nod of encouragement, a gesture that said, 'Take your time'.

She smiled softly at him, grateful that he always seemed to know what she needed without her asking. Then, with a deep breath, she turned back to the pages, eyes searching for something that felt like Maya, something that echoed the love now brimming inside her.

She didn't have to look far.

Her eyes landed on a quote that felt as though it had been waiting just for her:

"Not only does something come if you wait, but it pours over you like a waterfall, like a tidal wave."

Carina's heart stilled. Her fingers reached for her pen automatically, like muscle memory now, and she leaned in, writing carefully in the margin:

-Just like your letters. I wait, sometimes with nothing but the quiet ache of hope but when your words came, they hit me all at once. A tidal wave. A waterfall. They drown every fear and fill me with something I didn't know was possible. Something uniquely you.-

She let the pen hover for a moment, her gaze softening. She underlined waterfall and tidal wave, gently, as if tracing the outline of the way Maya's love had found her.

And it had, the love had poured into the cracks of her heart and made her whole again despite her never knowing she was broken in the first place.

She turned another page, still feeling the quiet hum of love under her skin. Then her breath caught on another line, something that made her still completely:

"A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single‑minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky's stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles."

She smiled, tilting her head as she read the line again. The idea of trekking toward something together, without a strict map, just the sky above and the stars to witness it felt like a promise waiting to be made.

She wrote:

-Let's take that trek together. We don't need a map because we have each other. We'll wander under the stars, maybe cameras and sketchbook's in hand, collecting our own constellations, finding our way back to each other no matter how far we roam. We'll make our own perfect pattern, our own trek to forever.-

She circled the words northing, single-minded, and stars, letting her fingertip drift across the page slowly, gently, as if leaving behind the kind of love that didn't need shouting, the kind that just needed to be lived.

She let the book rest against her chest for a long moment, breathing in deeply, grounding herself. Every annotation now felt like a love letter within a love letter. Each line she left behind wasn't just for Maya to find, it was a piece of her, a truth she wanted Maya to keep safe for her.

Carina glanced across the quiet café, the golden light now gone and sleepy in the windows. Jon had sunk into one of the plush armchairs by the corner bookshelf, his glasses low on his nose, completely absorbed in a worn hardcover novel. The sight of him brought a soft kind of comfort to her chest. Safe. That's how she always felt here. Safe in the walls of Bellamy's, safe with the hum of coffee and pages, and safest of all in the echo of Maya's words still circling her heart.

She pulled her bag closer, retrieving her stationary, the cream-coloured pages she always used when the words felt too big for the margins of a book. If this was the last letter before Saturday, before everything shifted from ink to skin, then she wanted to write it with the same softness and bravery they'd both offered each other all along.

She pressed her pen to the page.

Dear Maya,

When I saw "how dare you," I panicked, my stomach dropped. I thought I'd said too much, pushed too far, or scared you away. But then I read the rest, and I smiled, full-body, heart-wide, smile. So no, Maya, I won't apologise. Not for writing the only way I know how when it comes to you. Not when every word I write is just a reflection of what you've made me feel.

You consume me, entirely. Every thought, every moment of my day now seems to lead back to you. You're in the way I sip my espresso and think of you laughing, in the way I see autumn light and wonder how it would paint your face. You said I'm everywhere for you, but you, Maya, are stitched into the fabric of who I'm becoming.

The way you describe me, even when it's laced with humour, makes me see myself differently. You see something soft and whole in me, something deserving and I'm still learning how to see that version of me you hold so close. But I want you to know, I want you too, all of you. The way you sketch when the world goes quiet. The you who spills hot chocolate and laughs loud enough to knock pastries over. The you who writes letters like confessions and holds space like it's sacred. I want the dancing, the messes, the silences, and every mundane, beautiful thing in between because it's you. And it's us, and us might be the most magical thing I've ever known.

So yes, Maya. A thousand times yes. Yes to this weekend. Yes to Saturday at 10am. Yes in every language, in every lifetime. I want to hold you too. I want to feel your hand in mine, your breath near my neck when you read me a line that made you think of me. I want your head pressed to my shoulder in a moment of quiet joy. I want to experience your laughter without pages separating us. I simply want you.

And if you have the time, if it's not too much to ask, I want the whole weekend. I want to start our chapter the way we've written the others, fully, openly, with hearts on sleeves and with no rush to the ending. Please make sure your arms are open wide when you see me, because I don't think I'll be able to stop myself from running into them and when I get there, please don't let go, at least, not straight away.

I still can't believe this is real. But I will. I'll learn to believe it, to trust in this, in us because you're asking me to, and because my heart already decided it long ago that you were what it wanted. I promise to trust in you, if you'll promise to trust in me.

And yes to everything else. Yes to my lasagna and your mac & cheese. Yes to kitchens filled with flour dust and laughter. Yes to your sketches, and someday, if it's what you want, yes to drawing me. I would be honoured to sit still for you, to let you capture something we could never put into words.

You asked to keep writing, even when we're side by side and I say yes to that too. Yes to letters in lunch boxes and notes on mirrors. Yes to secret scribbles tucked in jacket pockets and reminders on the fridge. I think the written word will always be our way, and I hope that even when we're tangled up in the same bed, there will still be something waiting on the nightstand or slipped under a pillow, because I'll always want to write to you.

You said you're glad I'm not ready to leave yet. Maya, I don't think I ever could now, not when this place holds you. You're my home, the place in this world where I feel the safest and I want to be your home, too. I want to be where you rest, where you land when the world feels too loud. You say I'm your joy? But you are mine, Maya. You are my everything. You are the first person who's ever made forever feel like something I could want. Something I deserve.

So here's me in return, the me who will hold having you forever like my most treasured procession.

Forever yours,
Carina

P.S. When? Saturday. 10am. And if you'll let me, the whole weekend.
P.P.S. Festive pyjamas, red and tartan, bows if we're lucky. But honestly? As long as we're in them together, I'll take anything.
P.P.P.S. I did convince Jon to tell me. And yes, it was everything I imagined. I love that I make you laugh like that. Please don't ever stop.

She sat back, reading it once more with misty eyes. She sealed the envelope and, with careful hands, wrote Maya's name across the front. Beneath it, she added one final line, just in case Maya didn't open it before the weekend:

I cannot wait to meet you on Saturday. I'll be here at 10am.

Carina pressed the envelope between the pages they way they always did, brushing her fingertips across the edges once more. She glanced up to find Jon already watching her, quietly folding his book closed.

"I was just coming to check," he said, voice low. "No rush, still. Just figured you might be ready to go."

Carina nodded gently, tucking the book closed with a hand resting on its cover.

"I think I'm ready," she said, and for the first time, she felt like she meant it. "For all of it."

Jon gave her a knowing smile. "She'll be ready too. She's already halfway to you, you both are."

Carina nodded, her eyes soft. "I know. I just... I hope that when I finally have her in my arms, I can on long enough that I'll ever have to let go."

"You won't have to," Jon said with a kind smile. "You'll find your rhythm."

Carina looked at him carefully for a moment. "You really think she'll be there, waiting? Open arms and all?"

Jon chuckled. "I know she will. That girl sat right there and said she'd wait from sunrise to sunset if she had to. She's already halfway out the door with anticipation. She wants to hold you as much as you want to be held by her."

Carina exhaled, her whole body relaxing. "I really want to kiss her," she admitted quietly.

"You should," Jon replied easily, with a twinkle in his eye. "First chance you get."

"I think, I think I might be..," Carina whispered, smiling so softly it made Jon pause for a second.

"I know," he said, gently. "And I know she does too. Now go get ready to meet your person."

Carina hugged the book to her chest once more before grabbing her things.

Saturday, she thought, already counting the hours. It was still 3 days away but already, Saturday couldn't come soon enough.

Carina practically ran home, heart pounding against her ribs like it couldn't wait either. She barely stopped to take her shoes off, already calling out as she crossed the threshold of the apartment.

"I'm meeting her Saturday!" she announced, glowing.

The living room was filled with the familiar chaos of home, Jo perched on the floor, Amelia wrapped in a blanket, and Teddy curled into the armchair with a mug of tea balanced on her knee.

Jo's eyes lit up. "Saturday?!" she squealed, abandoning the blanket pile to wrap Carina in a giddy hug that almost knocked the wind out of her. "You're actually doing it?"

Amelia grinned. "This is huge!"

Teddy, however, looked completely lost.

"I'm sorry... who are we meeting on Saturday?" she asked, eyebrows pinched together.

Carina beamed as Jo and Amelia exchanged a knowing look, and then Amelia launched into an impromptu explanation.

"Maya," she said, with a dramatic flair. "Carina's letter-writing book soulmate. They've been exchanging marginalia for months now remember?. It's romantic, It's basically a Nora Ephron film without the rainy kiss yet."

Teddy blinked. "Maya? The one who you write notes in a book with at the café?" Teddy vaguely remembered.

"The very one," Carina said softly, as she took her place between them all, hugging a cushion to her chest.

Teddy stared at her a moment, thoughtful, cautious. "And you've never met her?"

"Not once."

"And you're meeting this person, this stranger, on Saturday?"

"She's not a stranger," Jo said before Carina could even respond. "Not really."

"Letters don't lie," Amelia added. "Not the kind they write."

Teddy looked at them, visibly hesitant. "Okay, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be negative. I just... I don't know. It's all very fast and it sounds intense. I know I haven't been back here long but Carina, this is big."

Jo nodded understanding, folding her legs beneath her. "We were hesitant at first too," she admitted, reaching for Carina's hand. "But then more letters came and we saw them, like really saw them."

"She showed up for her," Amelia said. "Every single time."

Carina exhaled, heart tugging at the warmth in their voices. She stood again, padding into her room for a moment before returning with a weathered shoebox in her arms. She placed it on the coffee table gently, reverently.

"What's in there?" Teddy asked, eyes narrowing.

Carina smiled. "Her, Maya. Every exchange we've had outside of the book, letters, napkins, promises."

She opened the lid to reveal a stack of letters, some creased and coffee-stained, others folded delicately, written on scraps of paper, napkins, and beautiful stationary. The box was full of Maya, her handwriting, her wit, her warmth, her vulnerability.

Jo and Amelia immediately reached for their favourites like children rifling through old birthday cards, their expressions soft with nostalgia. Teddy, slower and more careful, picked up a letter from the middle and began reading.

The room fell quiet as they each fell into Maya's world, her voice etched in ink, full of soul.

Teddy finally looked up, holding a letter in her hand like it had changed something in her. "She wrote this after what... three weeks?"

Carina nodded. "And every one since then has only deepened it."

"She said..." Teddy scanned the page again, reading aloud: 'I don't know your voice, but I hear it anyway. In the silence between lines, in the way I breathe softer when I write to you.' She looked up, her voice a little more tender now. "That's not a stranger. That's someone who adores you already."

"Exactly," Jo said, her eyes glassy. "It's in every word."

Amelia leaned back against the couch. "It's the kind of love that makes you believe in something again, like perfect timing or maybe it's fate, or maybe just books."

Teddy let out a breath, quieter this time. "I didn't expect this. But... I think I get it now."

Carina smiled at her, eyes shining. "I didn't expect it either. But she found me right between the margins."

Jo grinned and stood, heading into the kitchen. "I think this deserves wine. Tea is not enough for this level of feelings."

When she returned with a bottle, they all toasted clumsily with mismatched glasses, laughter bubbling over again.

"Okay," Teddy said, a touch more relaxed now. "So Saturday. Tell me everything."

Carina beamed and picked up the final letter, the one Maya had left just that morning.

"She starts with: 'Dear Carina. First of all... how dare you.'"

Jo and Amelia burst out laughing in unison. "Classic Maya!" Jo crowed.

Carina rolled her eyes with affection and continued, her friends knew parts of Maya now, they knew her humour and vulnerability, she loved that she could share Maya, because Maya would always be someone she couldn't stop loving even if she tried.

'How dare you write a letter that completely destroyed me in the softest possible way? I cried, I laughed, I clutched the book to my chest like it was a lifeline. I think at one point I even whispered your name out loud like you were sitting beside me. (Spoiler: you weren't but I checked. Twice.)'

Teddy raised her eyebrows. "Okay, that's... honestly adorable."

"She's always adorable," Amelia said.

Carina read more, her voice gentle.

'You said you want all of me, every version. Well, you have all of me already. The messy hair, morning breath, dancing-in-the-kitchen Carina. The espresso-loving, burnt-mac-and-cheese-making Carina. The one who gasps in cafés over romantic letters.'

"I am absolutely that Carina," she muttered, cheeks pink.

"Burnt mac and cheese?" Jo teased.

"Don't ask," Carina groaned. "But I told her I want her too. All of her. Even the parts she hides. Even the cinnamon-roll-dropping ones."

"That was a thing?" Teddy asked.

"She dropped one on herself at the café whilst reading my letter," Carina supplied. "Jon saw. He's sworn to secrecy."

Teddy laughed. "I'm starting to like this Maya."

They kept reading, pausing to comment and laugh, until they reached the part that made all three of Carina's housemates go utterly still.

'I will be there, I swear it. I promise to come with my heart on my sleeve, my arms wide open, and I will hold you for as long as you'll let me.'

"Oh wow," Teddy whispered.

Carina looked down, eyes shining. "She wants us to meet this weekend. Just... us. Finally."

"You deserve it," Amelia said. "All of it."

Carina smiled at her friends, at this strange, lovely little chosen family who had held her through every folded letter and sigh and smile. She hadn't just found Maya. She'd found them, too.

They read until the wine was gone and the letters had been passed around like heirlooms, until the sky darkened and someone put music on low in the background.

The wine had made everything feel a little looser, warmer, softer around the edges. They were curled on the couches now, blankets pulled over legs, the shoebox of letters still resting between them like a shared heartbeat. The laughter had faded into quiet smiles and stolen glances at folded notes, but the air still buzzed with something... tender.

Carina's voice broke the comfortable silence.

"Can I ask you all something?"

Three sets of eyes lifted to meet hers.

She fiddled with the stem of her wine glass, not nervous exactly, but vulnerable in a new way. "Have any of you... ever been with a woman?"

Jo let out a quiet laugh. "Well, you know about my one-time college kiss." She raised her brows at Carina. "It was a dare, I was very drunk, and the poor girl definitely deserved better than my lip-glossed panic."

Carina laughed gently, grateful for the lightness of the admission.

Amelia nudged Jo with her foot. "You still talk about that kiss like it was a near-death experience."

"It was," Jo replied. "I had no idea what I was doing but sometimes I find myself thinking about it, wishing I hadn't panicked and just experienced it."

Amelia smiled and turned to Teddy. "Well, Jo  and Carina know but Teddy, just so you're in the loop I have a very quiet, very hopeless crush on someone where we work. Their name's Kai."

Teddy's brows lifted. "Kai? I didn't know that, I work with them almost every day."

"Not many people do. Nothing's happened. I think they might be into me, but it's hard to tell with them because their kind of a closed book.They're brilliant, quietly intense, and I'm... well..." She gestured to herself, amused. "Less quiet."

Jo snorted. "Understatement of the year."

"But," Amelia continued, sitting up a little straighter, "there was someone, in college. Her name was Arizona Robbins."

Teddy blinked. "Wait, Arizona Robbins? As in THE Arizona Robbins?"

Amelia grinned. "The very one. Blonde. Confident. Brilliant. Everyone wanted her."

"Oh I know they did! She was the brains and the beauty, I was friends with her brother. Wait you and her?" Teddy asked, surprised.

"I was a shy little mouse back then but she noticed me. I don't even know how, but she did and we hooked up a few times." Amelia's voice went soft with memory. "It wasn't just about sex. It was about how she made me feel seen. It felt... different."

Carina leaned in. "Different how?"

Amelia looked thoughtful. "It was slower and softer. Not like with guys where there's this goal they think they're chasing. It was more about the connection. Like she actually wanted me, not just what I could give her, of course there was rougher moments and so much passion but it still felt softer in many ways."

Teddy nodded slowly. "Yeah. That tracks."

They all turned to her, and she took a sip of her wine before speaking.

"I've been with both," Teddy said. "Over the years but there was one, her name was Alison and she was my girlfriend when I lived in New York."

Carina smiled. "You've never mentioned her."

Teddy shrugged. "She was... my secret for a while, I thought it was because she wasn't out yet. But I found out it wasn't just that, it was she already had someone. I was the secret because she was hiding the cheating, not the love."

Amelia winced. "Oof. That's brutal."

"It was," Teddy admitted. "But it didn't change how I felt when we were together. Women... they're just different. They need tenderness because they love with their whole bodies. It's not about the finish line, it's more about being known, being seen."

Carina's fingers twisted around the sleeve of her jumper, heart full and aching at once. "That's what I'm scared of, I've never been with a woman before so Maya will be my first. And I just... I want to love her the way she deserves. I want to make her feel safe and wanted and held."

Teddy reached out, covering Carina's hand with hers. "You will because you're already thinking about it. That's what matters, you know her, you see her, you love her, there's no way she won't be able to feel that ."

"Exactly," Amelia said. "You're not rushing in or trying to prove anything, she already knows you care. That's what will make all the difference."

Jo nodded in agreement. "Honestly, if you're going to fall for a woman for the first time, Maya sounds like the best person to do it with."

Carina exhaled a laugh. "She's... everything. She makes me feel like I'm home even in letters, I just want all of her and I want to give her all of me. I don't even know how to explain it, she consumes every tiny part of my heart, my mind never strays away from her, I imagine her face and I don't even know if it's accurate but I don't care, I don't care what she looks like because she's already the most beautiful person in the world to me."

Teddy leaned back, her expression softening more and more by the second. "I can see that now and I get why you're all in. The way she writes to you? It's not casual. It's not just a pen pal thing. It's" she gestured to the pile of letters "a love story."

"The love story," Amelia added, grinning.

They sat in the warmth of it all, the wine, the stories, the shared memories and confessions. Carina looked around at these three women who had come into her life as flatmates and had somehow become her best friends. They knew her secrets, her fears and her heart.

And now, they knew Maya, too. She felt steady in a way,  loved in another but mostly she was ready.

Saturday was only a few days away, on Saturday she was going to meet Maya.

And Carina DeLuca had never been more sure of anything in her life.

Chapter Text

Maya had waited all week, Not patiently, well not really. She'd stared at her phone, at the clock, at the letters they'd shared like the ink might change and offer her a new answer. She'd reread every one of Carina's notes, her heart caught between hope and fear but she had told herself she wouldn't go to Bellamy's until Friday evening, to give Carina time, time to think, time to decide and respond.

But as she finished work and slung her coat over one shoulder, her steps were faster than usual. Not hurried but hopeful, she didn't want to run because that would admit how badly she needed this but her legs didn't listen. They moved like they already knew.

Maya wanted to meet her, she needed to meet her. Yet there was a possibly it might not happen, what if Carina had said no? What if the quiet between the letters was distance, not delay?

The bell above Bellamy's door chimed softly as she stepped inside, a familiar comfort washing over her. The scent of cinnamon and chocolate and old books was grounding, and it was Jon's warm eyes behind the counter that caught her first. His voice came, soft but expectant.

"She's been."

Maya didn't even bother hiding her urgency as she moved toward the counter, eyes wide with hope. "She has?"

Jon nodded, his whole face lighting up. "She was glowing, Maya. Like someone who'd just been told everything they've been hoping for is about to happen."

Maya gripped the counter, a breath catching in her throat. "She said yes?"

"She did, and not just a simple yes but an all the way in kind of yes. I saw it in her eyes."

Maya's whole body relaxed. She laughed softly, shakily, like the fear had just untangled itself from her chest. "Oh my god."

Jon grinned. "Also... I may have told her about the cinnamon roll incident."

Maya narrowed her eyes in mock betrayal. "Jon! That was supposed to go with me to the grave."

He chuckled, unapologetic. "She laughed, Maya. Like, she really laughed. I think it made her fall for you a little more."

"Okay... maybe I'll forgive you."

He held up a bag from beneath the counter, rustling it dramatically before setting it on top: the tub of rich drinking chocolate, and beside it, a little paper bag of mini marshmallows with her name scribbled across the front in thick black marker—MAYA'S ONLY – DO NOT TOUCH.

"Extra marshmallows?" she asked, the familiar ritual making her heart squeeze.

Jon gave her that same gruff smile that always held more affection than he let on. "Always. You're still my favourite, you know."

She leaned against the counter, teasing, "Still? Even after the cinnamon roll disaster?"

"Especially after the cinnamon roll disaster. That level of chaos takes commitment."

Maya laughed again, then paused, softer this time. "Thank you, for always making space for me here."

"You're part of the place now," Jon said simply, as if it were a fact. "Like the books. Like the smell of cinnamon. You belong here."

Maya's smile faltered just enough for emotion to peek through. "Even when I don't have to come here anymore to write to her?"

Jon reached out, taking Maya's hand in his own. "Especially then, this has been yours for almost a decade Maya, it will always be your place, maybe even more than it is mine."

She swallowed, something tender blooming in her chest. "You're going to make me cry."

He leaned in slightly, more serious now. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Even after you and Carina meet, when after whatever beautiful chaos you're about to become, please don't stop coming here. You don't need an excuse or a reason, this is still your space. I still want to see you, even if not everyday."

Maya nodded, overwhelmed. "I promise."

"Good," he said, clearing his throat and pretending his eyes weren't the slightest bit glassy. "Now go. She left you something in your usual spot."

Maya turned to leave, then paused and looked back over her shoulder. "Jon?"

"Yeah?"

"I hope you know that you're kind of everything I needed before I even knew I needed it."

He gave her a small, crooked smile. "Yeah, well, don't go telling people. I've got a grumpy reputation to maintain."

Maya laughed through the lump in her throat and made her way toward their shelf.

She didn't wait for the drink. Her fingers were already moving, flipping through the pages of their shared book, seeking the envelope tucked between the chapters like a treasure.

There it was. Her name in Carina's handwriting.

Maya.

And below it, scrawled in the same pen, a message that made her chest ache and her heart flutter in the same beat,

I cannot wait to meet you on Saturday. I'll be here at 10am.

Maya didn't sit right away. She stood in front of the table for a moment, clutching the envelope to her chest like it might disappear. Her mouth moved silently, forming the words again and again.

Saturday. Ten a.m.

A quiet giggle bubbled up and she covered her mouth, her eyes stinging with sudden tears.

She sat down finally, easing into her usual seat,. The book was there, but it wasn't the words inside it that mattered the most anymore, it was the promise that what they'd written to one another would now live outside of margins.

Still, Maya opened the envelope, unfolding Carina's latest letter with trembling fingers.

It was perfect, Carina's handwriting was messy in places where emotion clearly overtook her, her words overflowing like her heart couldn't be contained on the page and Maya? She read it all, every last word.

Yes to this weekend, yes, yes, yes, how many times can I write yes before I get my point across? Yes with my whole heart, yes in every lifetime.

Maya pressed the page to her lips.

She could already picture it, Carina walking through the café door, and the smile she'd only imagined turning real. Then Maya, standing there, heart on her sleeve, arms wide open like she promised.

Maya had read the letter once, well, skimmed it really. She'd taken in only the words that mattered most,

I'll be here at 10am.

Just reading that had sent her heartbeat rattling against her ribs like it was trying to find its way out. She hadn't dared let herself absorb the rest of it yet, not with her hands still shaking and her brain still somewhere between stunned and soaring.

She was staring at the envelope again, as if it might whisper more secrets if she looked long enough, when Jon returned. He placed a second coffee on the table and sat down across from her with the slow, practiced movements of a man who had spent his entire life pouring warmth into mugs and wisdom into conversations.

She reached for her drink when Jon brought it over, the extra marshmallows piled high.

"Ten a.m.," he said gently. "I'll open early for you."

Maya glanced up at him, gratitude thick in her chest. "Thank you."

"You look like someone who just got everything they wanted and doesn't quite know what to do with it," he said, eyes kind but amused.

Maya glanced up, cheeks flushing. "That's... alarmingly accurate."

Jon sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim. "So how are we feeling?"

Maya let out a half-sigh, half-laugh. "Honestly? Like I'm going to throw up."

"That's the good kind of love. The vomit-inducing kind."

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. "Jon."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice softer now. "But seriously. Talk to me."

Maya ran a hand through her hair, then gestured vaguely toward the letter. "I've wanted this for so long. I've imagined it so many different ways and now it's happening tomorrow. It's all going to be real and I don't know... What if I'm not what she thought I'd be? What if she regrets saying yes?"

Jon's face softened with a kind of patience Maya had never seen in him. "Maya, she's not showing up tomorrow because of what she thinks you might be. She's showing up because of what she already knows you are."

"But what if it's easier in writing?" Maya asked, voice quiet. "We're really good in ink and margins and notes slipped into books. What if us being face to face ruins that?"

He smiled gently. "Let me tell you something. I've seen a lot of people fall in love in this place but I've never seen anyone put their whole heart into words the way the two of you have. That doesn't just disappear in daylight, it's not some illusion that fades when you see each other across the table. That's real."

Maya bit her lip, her eyes stinging. "I feel like she's already part of me, Jon."

"She is. That's the part that's going to feel like it's both terrifying and like coming home."

There was a long pause before Maya looked at him again, a flicker of vulnerability in her voice. "What if I fall too fast?"

"Then fall," he said without hesitation. "Fall hard, fall messy, fall headfirst. That woman? She's already caught you. You just don't realise it yet."

Maya stared at him, blinking. "Since when are you this poetic?"

He smirked. "Since I started stockpiling marshmallows for you two years ago after realising you were bringing your own. I've never done that for anyone before."

She laughed, hand covering her mouth, and Jon reached out, patting her arm. "You've got this, kid and if for some reason you freeze, or you say something awkward, or you trip and fall face first into her"

"Wow, thanks for the image."

"she'll laugh, and she'll love you harder for it. Because the Maya who drops cinnamon rolls and sketches the world with her heart wide open? That's the woman Carina said yes to. So go be her."

Maya stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer goodness of him. "You're gonna make me cry again."

"Yeah, well. I'll be here with tissues and backup marshmallows if you need me." He joked, knowing he had to stop before Maya made him cry too.

She smiled, watery and grateful. "You're kind of the best, you know?"

"Just don't forget me when you two run off and live happily ever after."

"Never," she promised. "You'll always be part of me, of us and our story."

Jon nodded, took a sip of his coffee, and leaned back. "Good, because someone needs to make sure you actually keep your cinnamon rolls on the plate this time." He joked making Maya laugh and she felt lighter, like no matter what happened tomorrow, it would be ok because Jon would be right here with her.

Maya held the letter to her chest for a moment, eyes fluttering shut. She was smiling so hard it almost hurt, but she hadn't even read the rest yet, not properly. So she took a sip of her hot chocolate, marshmallows melting sweet and soft against her lips, and opened the letter again.

Dear Maya,
When I saw "how dare you," I panicked...

She laughed, genuinely, softly as she read, the kind of laugh that pushed air from her lungs and made her heart ache with fondness. The nerves of earlier melted with every word, Carina's voice threading into her mind, familiar and grounding.

You consume me, entirely...

Maya's eyes stung. Her free hand clutched at the letter, needing to hold it like an anchor. She didn't even realise the tears had begun to fall until she blinked one away, dripping onto the paper.

You're in the way I sip my espresso... in the way I see autumn light and wonder how it would paint your face...

God, she was so in love with this woman, a woman she knew so well but had never met, not yet anyway.

She read every line slowly, deliberately. Her lips moved silently, mouthing words like prayers. She chuckled at the mention of the hot chocolate incident, shook her head when Carina asked for the whole weekend and whispered "of course" to the empty space beside her. She was a mess of emotions, and she loved it.

Yes in every language, in every lifetime...

She folded into herself for a moment, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. Her breath shuddered in her chest.

She wasn't just ready. She was certain.

Please make sure your arms are open wide when you see me...

She imagined it there and then, Carina running across the café, no hesitation, straight into her. Maya's arms wide, her body warm and ready and waiting. She'd hold her and never let go.

I'll learn to believe it... if you promise to trust in me.

Maya whispered out loud, "I promise."

I would be honoured to sit still for you, to let you capture something we could never put into words...

"Too late," she whispered with a grin, "I already am."

And then, the ending. The kind that would live in her bones for the rest of her life.

You're the first person who's ever made forever feel like something I could want. Something I deserve.

Forever yours.
Carina.

Maya held the letter like it was the most fragile, precious thing she owned because maybe it was. Not because of the paper, or the ink, but because Carina had given her something sacred, her truth, her heart, her forever.

Maya didn't think she'd sleep that night.

But for the first time in her life, she was okay with that because in just a few hours, she'd be holding the woman who made her believe in magic again.

Maya turned to Chapter 13, her fingertips soft on the paper as if it could feel her excitement, her nerves, her awe. This chapter, the one she'd marked for Carina last week held some of the most vulnerable parts of her. And now, maybe it held Carina's, too.

The first quote she'd underlined read:
"You don't run down the present, pursue it with baited hooks and nets. You wait for it, empty-handed, and you are filled."

She remembered how her hand trembled when she wrote beneath it:

-That's what I've done with you. I waited, empty and unsure, aching in places I didn't even know had names and then you came. Quietly and softly, and now, I'm full. Not just with love, but with hope. With the kind of warmth I thought wasn't meant for me.-

Carina had replied in ink so delicate Maya had to tilt the page to read it fully:

-This is meant for us, Maya. This isn't fleeting. It's not a temporary kind of full, it's a forever kind of full. This feeling isn't going anywhere because I'm not going anywhere.-

Maya pressed her palm to the page like it might help calm the sudden fluttering in her chest. Carina wasn't going anywhere. That certainty washed over her like sunlight warming cold skin. It made her feel steady and grounded even though she could barely keep her foot from bouncing under the table.

The next underlined quote was no less emotional:
"Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery."

And below it, Maya had written:
-If that's true, then you are the most vivid part of my tracing. You are where the line deepens and where the faintness becomes color. You are the place where the mystery of life suddenly makes sense. Where it feels like everything I've lived through had to happen just to bring me here, to you.-

Carina's response had made her cry, the way she presented her honestly in paper and ink would never go unnoticed by Maya,

-You are my colour, Maya. I think my whole life before you was just black and white. Now everything feels different like I'm really seeing the world for the first time. And I want to keep seeing it, with you by my side.-

The image was so clear, of Carina seeing in colour for the first time, and it being Maya who brought that into her world. It was impossible and unbelievable and yet it made perfect sense.

Then came the final quote in the chapter:
"We are people; we are minds and ideas in the stream of time. We are beings dying in time, but the words, the ideas, the stories, go on."

Maya had written slowly, carefully:
–If all we ever were was this, these words, these notes, these pieces of ourselves passed through ink, I think I'd still feel like the luckiest woman alive. But I want more, Carina. I want us outside these pages. I want the moments, the time, the life. Let's become the story that continues on.–

At the time she wasn't sure if it was too much. But now, Carina's reply left no doubt:

–I feel like the luckiest woman alive too, Maya. But I want more. I want you in every way that exists outside these pages. I want your skin against mine, your lips on mine, your hand in mine. I want to hear your laugh, not just read about it. I want to watch your eyes crinkle when you smile and feel the weight of your arms around me.–

Maya inhaled shakily, her hand resting on the edge of the book, her eyes growing glossy. She didn't even realise she was smiling until a tear slipped down the curve of her cheek. The thought of holding Carina's hand, of brushing her hair back, of kissing her. It lit something inside her that had only flickered before now it burned steady and bright.

And then, below the response, Carina had added a final paragraph, slightly slanted as if written in a hurry, or maybe in a rush of emotion:

-I think I need you now, Maya. It's not just want but something I need. Like needing air to breathe, like needing light to see. You're something essential I need to continue living. I need to know what it feels like when you say my name out loud. I need the story that begins outside this book.-

Maya pressed her fingertips to her lips. She whispered, so soft only the books around her heard, "Carina." Just to try it. Just to let the sound exist in the real world.

Maya turned the page gently, her thumb brushing the edge of Chapter 14 as if smoothing out the transition between one sacred piece of their story to the next. The book had become a living thing between them, each chapter layered with meaning, each margin filled with glimpses of a love quietly blooming into something too big to be contained by just ink and paper.

The first quote Carina had underlined was:
"Not only does something come if you wait, but it pours over you like a waterfall, like a tidal wave."

And below it, in her delicate but passionate handwriting, Carina had written:

–Just like your letters. I wait, sometimes with nothing but the quiet ache of hope, but when your words come, they hit me all at once. A tidal wave. A waterfall. They drown every fear and fill me with something I didn't know was possible. Something uniquely you.–

Maya exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the curve of Carina's "y" as if it would bring her closer. That ache Carina spoke of, Maya knew it. She felt it too. The days between letters, between visits to Bellamy's, had been filled with that same quiet hope. But knowing her words had brought Carina comfort? That they were enough to wash away fear? That they poured over her like something beautiful and alive?

It made Maya want to be better.

She reached for her pen and replied directly beneath:

–I promise you, I'll never make you wait too long. I'll meet every fear with love, wrap every ache in warmth and when my words run out, I'll show you in actions, in glances, in the silent in-between. I'll show you beyond words. Always.–

The pen trembled slightly in her hand, but her heart didn't. That part was steady now, like it had finally found where it was supposed to land.

She turned the page again, eyes falling on the next underlined passage. It wasn't one that had originally struck her. In fact, Maya had read it several times and still couldn't quite grasp it the way she had with others:

"A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single‑minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky's stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles."

It was poetic, sure. But Maya hadn't found the feeling in it, that was until she read what Carina had written below,

–Let's take that trek together. We don't need a map because we have each other. We'll wander under the stars, maybe cameras and sketchbooks in hand, collecting our own constellations, finding our way back to each other no matter how far we roam. We'll make our own perfect pattern, our own trek to forever.–

Maya's chest clenched with the kind of joy that made her eyes sting. She could see it, the two of them lying on a blanket somewhere in the hills, Carina holding a camera, her fingers curled gently around the lens. Maya sketching the sky, but only after sketching Carina first because no star could ever compete. They would lose track of time, maybe fall asleep with their hands entwined, their lives slowly orbiting each other in the quiet way the stars do, constant, vast, and quietly certain.

She smiled, pulled her pen back out, and wrote:

-I want that trek. I want the wandering and the constellations and the way back to you no matter how far we roam. I want to lay beside you and trace our own stars, knowing they'll always lead us home. Because you are home, Carina.-

Maya closed the book for a moment, holding it to her chest. Her heart felt too big for her body, like it had expanded with every quote, every response, every promise they'd made to each other in the margins of a worn paperback.

Tomorrow, they'd meet and all the wondering, all the aching and wishing and note-leaving, would fall away into something real. She didn't know if she'd sleep that night. She wasn't sure she'd even try.

For the first time since she had opened the book, Maya hesitated.

Chapter 15 lay open in front of her like an invitation, the spine cracked just enough to reveal its weight, the paper familiar beneath her fingertips. They had built a rhythm over time, a quiet, unspoken dance of underlines and replies, thoughts given and received. She'd planned to read on because it felt right to finish this chapter of their story before tomorrow came. Before everything changed.

But something in her made her pause.

It was slight, so slight that she almost missed it. A prickle at the base of her neck, a soft shift in the air, as if the atmosphere in Bellamy's had realigned without warning. Her fingers, which had been gently curled around the corner of the next page, stilled. Her breath caught, the way it sometimes did when emotion swelled before she had words for it.

Her heart, steady just moments ago, began to thud with a quiet insistence. Not in panic, but in anticipation.

Her shoulders tensed slightly, like she was bracing for something unknown, and a sudden warmth spread across her chest, an inexplicable flush of heat, like the sun had broken through an invisible window and landed squarely on her. She shifted in her seat, swallowing hard, trying to shake it off, assuming it was just the intensity of the story, the closeness of the words.

Her palms had gone damp. She wiped one discreetly on her jeans, blinking as her vision almost seemed to sharpen, as if her body knew something before her mind had caught up. The gentle murmur of the café suddenly became quieter, less defined, the clink of a cup wasn't as sharp, the creak of the door almost disappeared, the scuff of a shoe on the wooden floorboards. None of it seemed to register.

Maya's head lifted slowly, as if she felt it, the shift. As if something in the atmosphere whispered that the story had turned a page.

And then their eyes met.

Maya blinked, as if her mind hadn't caught up yet, like she was trying to convince herself that what she was seeing couldn't be real.

No, Maya thought instantly, it can't be, but she knew. God, did she know.

The bell above the café door didn't give its usual gentle chime as Carina stepped inside but the moment she crossed the threshold, something inside her stilled and then quickened.

She didn't have to look far before she saw her. Not just anyone but her.

Maya.

She was sitting at the corner table, the way Jon had described, the one Carina had pictured her sat at again and again. Her shoulders curled slightly inward, like she was deep in thought. A book, their book, open in front of her. Her hair tucked behind one ear. The sleeves of her jumper pushed up. There was something in her stillness like she was waiting, even if she didn't know it.

And Carina... Carina couldn't breathe.

Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt faint for a moment. Her throat closed up, her fingers trembled softly at her sides. Everything she'd imagined, every word they'd written, every soft note, every almost-love letter, it all collapsed into this one moment, a moment that wasn't even supposed to happen until tomorrow.

Her eyes prickled with tears she hadn't expected. Not from sadness but from knowing, from the overwhelming recognition that someone she had only held in letters had just stepped out of a dream and into her real, breathing, terrifyingly beautiful life.

She didn't move. She couldn't.

She stood frozen in the doorway, eyes fixed on Maya like she was something too fragile to look away from.

There was no room for doubt. Even though it was late for Maya to be here, even though they had agreed on tomorrow. Even though they had never seen each other face to face, something in Carina's soul knew. She knew with an aching certainty that shook her from the inside out. Her heart skipped and then stumbled into a rhythm so powerful it almost knocked the breath from her lungs.

And when her eyes drifted toward the counter, Jon was already watching.

He had paused mid-reach for a mug, his expression unreadable only for a second until his eyes softened and he gave her the smallest of nods.

His hand moved to the camera beside the register, and in a fluid motion, he lifted it.

No words were exchanged, just a gentle look that said 'you're right on time'.

Carina's eyes darted back to Maya, who still hadn't seen her.

She could hardly breathe as she took a small, silent step forward. Then another.

Maya shifted slightly, just enough for Carina to catch the curve of her profile, the way she was biting the inside of her cheek. She looked conflicted. Lost in her head.

And then, like some invisible thread had tugged gently between them, Maya looked up.

Her eyes found Carina's across the room.

They froze.

Maya's brows lifted slightly in disbelief, and Carina swore the earth tilted on its axis. Neither of them moved at first, they just... looked. Like they'd been searching through galaxies and finally found the only star that ever mattered.

Maya blinked once, then again. Her lips parted just slightly before her gaze flicked, barely, to Jon. Jon nodded and that was all it took.

Suddenly, her entire world tilted. Time didn't stop, but it softened.

Everything else around her blurred like watercolour left out in the rain. People became brushstrokes, noise fell away and all that remained was her.

Carina.

She was standing just inside the door, haloed in the soft light that was spilling from above, like the universe had tilted the entire café toward her. Maya couldn't speak, couldn't blink, couldn't do anything but feel. Every thought dissolved. Her breath caught mid-inhale and never made its way out again.

Because Carina... wasn't a stranger. She wasn't a surprise. She was familiar in a way that made no logical sense. Maya knew those eyes, she'd read the shape of that soul a hundred times in ink. She knew the curve of that mouth, the softness of that gaze. She knew the way her smile would feel before it even arrived.

But nothing had prepared her for how alive she would be or for how much she would feel.

She was beautiful. Not just physically but wholly, deeply, breathtakingly. In the kind of way that made Maya feel like her own heart had finally remembered how to beat. She had dreamt of this face for weeks, of what it might feel like to see her. But dreams didn't compare because this wasn't some abstract hope.

This was Carina. In the flesh.
Here.

And her eyes, those impossibly warm, impossibly kind eyes were looking right at her.

Maya could feel her own smile blooming before she could stop it. It came from somewhere deep, somewhere she hadn't known existed until this very moment. Her body felt light and heavy at the same time, like she might float right off the floor and drop to her knees all at once.

Maya's smile didn't rush. It unfolded, softly and gently, like the rising sun easing over a horizon, one ray of light at a time. It started in the corner of her mouth, just a quiet twitch of recognition and then it blossomed, slow and full, until it touched everything. Her cheeks lifted, dimples forming. Her eyes turned to liquid gold, glinting with the kind of warmth that wasn't just seen but it was felt. That smile wasn't just a greeting. It was a promise.

And Carina felt it like a wave, crashing quietly but completely through every inch of her.

Maya had promised her, heart on sleeve, arms open and now, standing across the café with a gaze steady and soft, that smile was her way of saying I meant it.

Carina could feel her own body exhale, the stillness she'd walked in with finally breaking. She hadn't realised how tense she was until she saw Maya's face, until she saw that smile and everything inside her let go. Her shoulders dropped. Her heartbeat steadied. The ache of anticipation that had lived in her chest for weeks quieted. And all she could think was, God, she's beautiful.

Maya was dressed in the simplest way, wearing slim jeans that clung to her legs and a deep grey hoodie, one hand still resting on the open pages of their book. Her hair was down, not in the ponytail Carina had imagined in one of her daydreams, but soft, wavy and slightly tousled, like she'd run her hands through it a dozen times that evening. It fell just past her shoulders and framed her face in a way that made her look both achingly familiar and impossibly unreal.

Carina had imagined this moment so many times. She'd imagined what Maya might wear and how tall she might be. Whether her voice would tremble the first time she said hello.
But this, her smile, was better than anything she could have imagined .

Maya looked like someone caught between chapters, like someone who had just come alive from the pages they'd shared. There was something unassuming about her. Something almost grounded. But she held herself with the kind of presence that made everything around her fade.

And that smile. Carina didn't know if she would ever recover from that smile.

It wasn't flirtatious or polished. It wasn't posed or practiced. It was honest and open, like Maya had recognised her, not just her face, but her, and she couldn't hold back the joy that spilled from somewhere deep inside.

Carina's heart pulled tight, a little overwhelmed. She had never been looked at like that. She had never been seen like that. And as that smile continued to stretch across Maya's face, it filled Carina with a kind of quiet joy she hadn't known her body could hold.

Maya didn't know how long they'd been staring. Seconds? Minutes? A lifetime? Time had no structure anymore, it felt like the whole world had faded away, like the background had melted into soft blur, and only this existed. Only her. Only Carina.

Her heart was thundering so hard she could barely hear anything else. But somehow, she remembered, arms open, heart on sleeve. A promise whispered in ink and kept in breath.

So, she stood.

Her knees trembled beneath her, like her body was catching up to the moment, but she didn't falter. She stepped out from behind the table, slow and certain, her gaze never leaving Carina's. And with a breath that felt more like a prayer, she lifted her arms, open and waiting.

The second she did, Carina moved.

No hesitation. No pause.

She crossed the café like she was running into sunlight, like her body already knew the way. It wasn't dramatic, it wasn't loud but it was everything, and when she reached Maya, it took less than a heartbeat for her arms to fold around her. Her body collided with Maya's with the kind of softness that could still knock the wind out of you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Maya exhaled because Carina's body fit against hers so naturally that it almost brought tears to her eyes. She felt the curve of her back press into her hands, her face nestled gently into her neck, her breath falling warm and fast. And it wasn't just the physical closeness, it was the knowing, the deep-down knowing that this was real. That Carina was no longer words on a page, no longer in her imagination but she was here, in her arms, solid and soft and everything Maya had ever hoped for.

It was the entire weight of every note passed between pages. Every scribbled margin. Every midnight thought Carina had ever whispered onto paper. Every ache that Maya had carried, wondering if she was too much or not enough.

It all culminated in this and it felt like her world had finally, finally clicked into place.

Carina's body against hers wasn't hesitant, it was whole. It was the kind of closeness that said I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. When Maya wrapped her arms around her, it felt like a vow, the silent kind that didn't need an altar or an audience. Her chin rested gently on top of Carina's shoulder, and her eyes stung, not with sadness, but with relief. A kind of soul-deep exhale she hadn't even known she was holding in for months.

So this is what it feels like, she thought. This is what it feels like to find the person who understands every inch of you without ever needing to ask for instructions.

Carina melted into her like she belonged there, like Maya was something she'd been waiting for, searching for, needing without knowing how deeply. And Maya knew, right then, that if she hadn't been sure before, she was now.

Carina was trembling, but not out of fear. Maya could feel it in the way she held on, almost desperate, but certain, like she was afraid to let go because it would wake her up from a dream.

And Carina?
Carina couldn't breathe at first.

She'd imagined this moment so many times,  falling into Maya's arms, feeling her heartbeat against her own but nothing could've prepared her for the reality. Maya was taller than she expected, and her arms were stronger, and warmer.

The moment Maya's arms wrapped around her, something in Carina broke wide open. Not in a painful way but in the kind of way that meant healing had begun.

She didn't just feel the hug, she sank into it, like her body had finally found the place it was meant to land. Her hands clung to the back of Maya's hoodie, fisting it gently like if she held tight enough, she could stay here for a lifetime.

This is her, Carina thought, breath catching in her throat. This is the woman I've been writing to. This is the voice I've heard in my head every day. The person who turned my world to colour. And now... she's real because she's here.

Everything she'd feared, the distance, the risk of falling too hard, or too fast all of it melted away. In Maya's arms, there was no fear. There was only certainty.

She didn't care that they were standing in the middle of a café or that Jon was probably watching from behind the counter. The world had narrowed down to this small pocket of warmth and closeness where nothing else mattered.

And when Maya's hand slid to cradle the back of her head, so gently, so instinctively, Carina's chest ached with how loved she felt.

She was it. She was everything. Every moment, every note, every word they ever shared, it led to this. And if Carina wasn't already hers before, she was now. Entirely, completely and without hesitation.

Carina buried her face deeper into Maya's shoulder, her cheek brushing against soft cotton and skin. She could feel the steady rise and fall of Maya's chest, could feel the way her heartbeat slowed slightly as they held each other. It was like their bodies were already syncing, like they had done this a thousand times before in dreams neither of them remembered.

"You're here," Carina breathed, voice cracking around the edges of her emotion as a quiet sob slipped through her lips.

Maya instinctively pulled back just enough to see her face, cupping it tenderly between her hands. Her thumbs brushed away the tear trailing down Carina's cheek, her touch as soft as the look in her eyes. "I am," Maya whispered, her smile warm and sure, "and so are you."

It was such a simple exchange of words, but it held the weight of every letter they'd written, every aching hour spent imagining this moment, every hope they'd tucked between margins and pages. Two souls, finally in the same place at the same time.

Carina couldn't bear the small space between them, not when she'd spent so long dreaming of this closeness. Her hands clutched Maya's hoodie again and she pulled her back in, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that had always belonged. Maya let it happen with no resistance, wrapping herself fully around Carina once more.

She guided Carina's head gently to her shoulder, and Carina turned in instinctively, nose brushing the curve of Maya's neck, like her body knew exactly where it was safe. And the moment she breathed her in, Carina felt it, because Maya smelled like coconut and earth and warmth. Like autumn wind and ink and something else entirely. Something that felt like home.

Carina hadn't known that home could have a scent. She'd never thought to name it before, but now she would know it anywhere. It was Maya.

Maya's fingers began to move slowly through Carina's hair, tender and unrushed, like she was memorising the softness of each curl. She let her touch linger, soaking in the weight of Carina in her arms. She was solid and warm and real, not just handwriting on paper anymore, not just imagined in quiet moments.

She was here. And she was so much more than Maya had dreamed.

No letter, no sketch, no daydream could have prepared her for the way Carina felt. She was soft in every way, her skin, her scent, the way she breathed like she'd finally exhaled after a long time holding it in. But there was strength there too. Maya could feel it beneath her palms, she could sense it in the way Carina clung like she'd found something she never wanted to lose.

Maya pressed her lips to the top of Carina's head and whispered into her hair, "It's okay. I've got you now. I'm not leaving."

And she meant it. With her whole heart.
Because now that she had Carina here, now that she knew what it was like to hold her, to feel the rhythm of her breath, the curve of her spine, the way she tucked perfectly into her arms

Letting her go was no longer an option.
Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever.

So neither of them rushed.

Time, as they knew it, had folded into something quieter, softer like the lull between heartbeats where everything important already lives. The world outside Bellamy's faded into background static. There was only this moment, and them inside it.

They had shifted slightly, not pulled apart, just melted into a new shape. Maya's arms, once threaded through Carina's curls, had fallen down to her shoulders, before tracing small, grounding circles across her back. One hand came to rest around her waist, the fabric of Carina's coat soft and worn under her fingers. She could feel the rise and fall of Carina's breath, the slight tremble of her body that hadn't quite settled yet.

Carina's hands had started out clutched tightly to the back of Maya's hoodie, fingers fisted like she feared letting go might make Maya disappear, like maybe this was all too good, too big, to stay real. But Maya hadn't gone anywhere. She had stayed, strong and still, and Carina began to believe she always would.

One of Carina's hands slowly released its grip and travelled upward, brushing gently through the soft waves of Maya's hair before resting against the nape of her neck, her thumb rubbing slow, reverent circles against the skin there. A quiet 'I'm not going anywhere either'.

They hadn't noticed Jon behind the counter. He didn't dare speak, didn't interrupt the quiet sacredness of the moment, he simply lifted his camera and did what he'd been waiting so long to do. He captured it all. The stillness before they saw each other. The precise second their eyes met. The shy smiles that built into beaming grins. Carina's breathless run. Maya's open arms. Their first embrace. The tears. The forehead touches. The awe. The joy. The knowing.

And now, he captured the love. The real, settled love that needed no explanation. The kind of love that looks like home.

"Come, sit," Maya said gently, her voice low but sure, like a lullaby made just for her. Her hand found Carina's instinctively, fingers slipping into place as if they'd been reaching for each other in another life.

Maya guided her toward the table, half-expecting Carina to take the seat beside her. But Carina had other plans.

Without a word, she climbed into Maya's chair instead, awkwardly at first, like she knew it wasn't quite made for two, but her body told her she needed to be closer than across a table. Maya let out a warm, breathy giggle, absolutely enchanted.

Carina shifted and wiggled as gracefully as she could until she was partly in Maya's lap, not completely, just enough for their closeness to feel uninterrupted. Her legs draped across Maya's thighs, her side tucked in along Maya's chest. It was clumsy and crooked but absolutely perfect.

Maya adjusted her with ease, her arm sweeping behind Carina's back like she'd always meant to be her anchor while her other hand came to rest over Carina's knee. Their bodies slotted together like a favourite paragraph written in the margins of their story, unexpected, but meant to be.

Carina let out a sigh so deep, it seemed to come from every lonely hour she'd ever lived before this moment. Her head settled against Maya's shoulder, breath soft against the curve of her neck. Maya turned just enough to press a kiss into Carina's temple and closed her eyes for half a second.

Carina noticed their book first, it lay open and resting, its spine soft from wear and the corners of the pages slightly bent. Her eyes flicked to the header at the top of the right-hand page.

"Chapter fifteen," she murmured, her voice still a little breathless from all the emotion. She smiled softly and looked at Maya. "Did you finish?"

Maya shook her head gently, strands of her golden hair brushing against Carina's cheek. "No," she whispered, her voice raspier than usual but every word strung together like melody. "I saw your comments on chapter thirteen, and I just read and replied to you in chapter fourteen... but something made me hesitate."

She paused, her eyes lifting to meet Carina's. "Maybe subconsciously I was waiting for you. So we could close this chapter together."

Carina's heart swelled, the kind of fullness that made it hard to breathe. Every time Maya spoke, it was like poetry being folded into her bones. That soft edge to her voice , a rasp laced with years of vulnerability and strength pulled at every string inside of her. Maya's voice sounded exactly like she'd imagined, only better. Like a match being lit in the dark.

"You promised," Carina reminded gently, nudging Maya with her shoulder. "That if I read the first page, you'd read the second."

Maya had already started to nod before Carina even finished the sentence, which made Carina laugh, a warm, bubbling sound that made Maya's heart practically skip out of rhythm.

And God, Maya was mesmerised by her.

From the laugh, to the accent, the way her entire face lit up when she smiled, Maya wasn't sure how she was suppose to survive this moment, how she was ever supposed to look away. Carina was impossibly beautiful, her hair was soft and wild in places, curling around her face like it had always belonged there. Her cardigan was the colour of soft cream, and it slipped gently from her shoulders as she shrugged off her coat. Her skin was golden and warm, like morning sun, and her eyes, god those eyes were galaxies all on their own. Her lashes curled dark against her cheekbones, and just beneath her bottom lip sat a tiny mole Maya had never known existed until now, and now couldn't unsee it, and she didn't want to. It made her smile.

There wasn't a single part of Carina that Maya wasn't in awe of. Not a single detail she didn't want to memorise. Her laugh was the kind that echoed, not just through the café, but through the soul. Her accent danced over every syllable, like even her words wanted to touch a little softer when they reached Maya. She was magic. Maya knew it, somewhere deeper than thought, Carina was made of something divine.

Carefully, Maya reached forward, picking up the book from the table and laying it across Carina's legs. She turned slightly in the seat so that their bodies were still pressed together, warm and tangled, and opened the page wide enough that both of them could hold it.

Maya's hand curled around one side. Carina's settled on the other, thumb brushing softly against the paper.

And then, gently, Maya let her head fall against Carina's shoulder, nestling in like she had already known it would fit there perfectly and it did. The moment her head touched Carina's shoulder, it was like every racing thought in her mind took one long exhale.

This was the peace she'd been searching for.

"Okay," Carina whispered, her voice low, grounding, and impossibly intimate.

Maya felt it more than she heard it, Carina's voice rumbling softly through her collarbone as her lips brushed the air beside her ear.

And then, just like they had done a hundred times before, but now for the first time, Carina began to read to her aloud, and everything else in the world simply fell away.

Carina read the page slowly, reverently, as if each word was a thread in the delicate tapestry of everything they'd become. Her voice, soft but sure, floated into the space between them, wrapping around Maya like a blanket spun from warmth and wonder.

Maya was entirely lost in her.

The words were beautiful in their own right, but became something altogether different when spoken in Carina's voice. Her accent lilted and curled around each sentence, making even the most ordinary lines feel like poetry. Maya's head remained nestled against her shoulder, her nose brushing just beneath Carina's jaw. She wasn't sure if she was reading the book or listening to the rhythm of Carina's heartbeat through her collarbone.

Carina felt Maya's smile before she saw it. The soft curve of her lips pressed against her neck, her breath warm and steady against the hollow beneath her collarbone. It was almost enough to make her lose her place in the sentence, but she kept going, even though her heart was racing.

Maya could've stayed there forever, she was warm against Carina, listening to a voice that felt like safety and honey and something close to home when suddenly, Carina nudged her gently with her knee.

And again.

And again.

Maya made a soft sound, somewhere between a hum and a reluctant whine. "Why are you poking me? I'm in heaven."

Carina turned her head slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You promised to read the second page," she whispered.

Maya pulled her head back just enough to see her face, lips pouting. "But your voice is unfair," she whispered back. "It's addictive like velvet cake or espresso and something warm I never want to stop hearing."

Carina laughed, low and melodic. "You read. I'll carry on after you do."

Maya sighed, but she grinned. "Fine," she muttered. "But only because you bribed me with the promise of more."

She adjusted the book slightly and sat a little straighter, Carina's legs still draped across hers, knees touching, arms brushing. Carina's hand found Maya's hair again as she listened, her fingers gently brushing through the strands, letting them coil and slide between her fingertips. Maya had to focus hard to keep reading, because every time Carina's nails grazed her scalp, she forgot what language was.

Still, she read.

Her voice wasn't as melodic as Carina's, it was raspier, rougher around the edges, but Carina loved it. Every word was deliberate, every sentence held with the same weight that Maya had always given their letters. Her voice cracked slightly at a tender line, and Carina immediately ran her thumb across Maya's back, anchoring her there.

They alternated naturally. There was no plan, no structure, just passing the book like it had always belonged to both of them. At one point, Carina reached forward and pulled Maya's hand into her lap, lacing their fingers without a second thought. She kept her thumb moving, stroking over Maya's knuckles gently grounding her.

Maya paused at a passage about home, about how home wasn't a place, but a person and looked up. Carina was already watching her.
Neither of them said anything, but Maya squeezed her hand once and Carina squeezed back.

They read through the final paragraph together, Maya finishing the last sentence and whispering the final words against Carina's temple, because it felt right.

The book closed between them, but their story, the one they were writing without pages, without ink, that was just beginning.

Carina leaned in, her forehead resting against Maya's, noses brushing, lips not quite meeting. "We did it," she whispered.

Maya nodded, her voice a breath. "We did."

It took them a moment to realise how close they were, how truly and intimately they'd melted into one another. Their foreheads pressed gently together, breath shared in the smallest space, noses brushing with each exhale. Carina was still settled across Maya's lap, a position that should've felt awkward or rushed but didn't.

Carina's fingers curled softly at the back of Maya's neck, holding her there not with force, but with intention as if she couldn't bear the thought of any distance returning between them. Maya's hands told the same story, one wrapped snugly around Carina's waist, fingers splayed over the ribbed knit of her cardigan, grounding her. The other had found a place on Carina's arm, and slowly began to move.

Her touch was featherlight. A gentle glide of fingertips over the delicate curve of Carina's forearm, tracing the warmth of skin through knit sleeves. Then higher, over the bend of her elbow, up the smooth line of her upper arm, like she was memorising Carina in pieces, one breath at a time.

Carina watched her with parted lips and awe behind her lashes, as if she couldn't believe this was real, that Maya was real.

Maya's fingers trailed to Carina's shoulder, paused for a beat, then crossed the slope of her collarbone with the same reverence one might use in tracing scripture. And then finally she reached her jaw.

Her thumb brushed delicately along Carina's jawline, until her palm cupped the side of her face, holding her there. Carina's breath hitched, and she leaned into the touch instantly, like it was the place she'd been seeking her whole life, a missing piece, the resting spot.

Her cheek settled into Maya's palm like it had always belonged there. Neither spoke. They just looked.

Maya took in the curve of Carina's lashes, the quiet wonder in her eyes, the perfect imperfection of her mole beneath her bottom lip. She'd imagined her so many times but now, in this light, Carina was more beautiful than fantasy could ever allow.

Carina drank Maya in like she was made of sunlight, the flushed pink of her cheeks, the way her golden skin held warmth even in the café's fading light, the slope of her lips, the tiny scar on her eyebrow. Maya was art, not perfect, but profound. She looked like a story Carina had read a thousand times and somehow still found new things to love.

The silence between them wasn't empty. It was full of promises, of poems unwritten, of moments they had yet to live. And then, Maya's voice came low, soft, asking permission but already etched with need.

"Can I?" she whispered, her eyes dropping to Carina's lips before lifting again, holding her gaze with such devotion it could melt stone.

Carina didn't answer with words. She didn't need to. She closed the distance and when their lips met,

It wasn't a spark.
It wasn't fireworks.

It was an explosion of stars, a quiet but massive cosmic shift that bloomed from the tip of their tongue to the soles of their feet.

It was tender, the soft press of lips meeting lips for the first time, a dance learned in instinct and reverence.

Maya let out a breathless sigh into the kiss, and Carina answered with a soft hum, both of them trembling from the magnitude of something they had waited a lifetime for.

It wasn't just a kiss, it was every letter, every quote, every scribbled word in the margins. It was the moment they realised that they had fallen in love long before they had even met and now that they had, they were too far in to ever turn back.

Maya kissed her like she had been waiting her whole life for this one moment.

Carina kissed her like she had just found the place she'd always been looking for.

And when they finally pulled back, foreheads pressing together again, breath shared in small spaces, their eyes met, and both of them smiled through the tears that clung to their lashes.

They didn't say it out loud. They didn't have to.

It was in every heartbeat.
Every touch.
Every inch of closeness that neither of them would dare to break.

And just like that, the story they'd written in margins, in ink, in hope, had become real.
And it was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

10 years later

The soft chime of the bell above the door rang out into the early evening, the sound no louder than a whisper, but loud enough to turn every head in Bellamy's.

It had been ten years, and yet somehow, it felt like no time at all.

The café looked different these days, brighter maybe, softer too as the walls were now lined with photographs, drawings and hand-penned poetry. The shelves bore more creases in their spines than ever before, and the floorboards hummed with stories, old and new. But the heart of it remained unchanged.

Because Bellamy's wasn't just a bookshop anymore.

It was the place where stories found breath, where people gathered not only to read but to be read, to be seen, understood, felt. It was where community had been stitched together one book club at a time. Where Carina had once sat with an espresso and a quiet ache in her chest. Where Maya had once tucked notes into the margins of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and unknowingly opened the first chapter of her life.

And tonight, this place, their place was about to hold another story.

Maya's.

Jon stood behind the counter, polishing a mug for no reason other than to keep his hands busy. He hadn't run Bellamy's full-time in years, not since he'd passed the reins over to Maya when she left accounting and said, "I just want to be part of something real."

She had taken over quietly at first, easing her way in with her Thursday night book club and Tuesday toddler story times. She began hosting reading groups for kids who were more at home in paper worlds than noisy classrooms. She created corners of the shop where anyone, from lonely pensioners to overwhelmed young parents, could come and just... be.

What started as a temporary job, a space to breathe after quitting a career that had never fit her, slowly became her calling, and while it was Bellamy's that gave her the foundation, it was Carina who helped her see what could grow from it.

It was Carina who had encouraged her to go back to college, not for the sake of a degree, but for herself. To rekindle the part of Maya that lit up whenever she talked about stories. Maya had hesitated, worried about time, about money, about what it would mean for their family, but Carina had simply taken her hand and said, "We'll figure it out. I want this for you."

So Maya had studied, she'd taken night classes and weekend intensives, fallen asleep over annotated texts and woken up with her face pressed into literary criticism. All the while, Carina had kept things afloat, running Fiorire, being the best house wife she could be, folding Maya's notes into her lunches with encouragement scrawled in looping Italian.

Maya worked part-time at Bellamy's alongside Jon, who, despite not being her father, somehow became Dad without anyone really noticing when. At first, he was the quiet shop owner who gave her space to grow. But somewhere between hot chocolates on rainy Sunday mornings and staying late to shelve new arrivals together, a bond had formed.

One afternoon, after he made a terrible pun while brewing coffee, Maya had rolled her eyes and muttered, "Okay, Dad," with the type of sarcastic flair Carina would be proud of and from that moment on, it just stuck. He answered to it, proudly.

They became a sort of makeshift family. Jon would call every Friday to ask if they wanted waffles the next morning. He'd stop by with secondhand books for the girls or drop off flowers to Carina just because. He showed up at toddler Tuesdays, at reading club showcases, at every small and quiet milestone Maya didn't even know she needed celebrated, and he celebrated them anyway.

And Carina... Carina had never once wavered.

She'd taken on the role of breadwinner in those early years without ever making Maya feel less than. She worked long days, smiled through tired eyes, and still made time to sit and read with Maya in the quiet hours after their daughters were asleep. She was proud, endlessly and achingly proud.

Because now, Maya smiled.

She smiled in ways she never used to, not the polite kind, not the surface kind but full, heart-deep grins that cracked her wide open and let the light in. She came home excited to tell Carina about the next book for the community reading group, or how a little boy had brought in his favourite picture book for toddler Tuesday and couldn't wait to read it to her himself.

Maya was sharing her passion for books and literature and, in turn, people were sharing their own stories with her. For Carina, that smile, that joy, was worth more than anything else in the world.

Watching Maya grow into herself, step by steady step, into a woman who could walk into a room like this one and be exactly who she was, it never stopped bringing tears to Carina's eyes.

And tonight, Maya Bishop was launching her own book.

Not a textbook or a self-help guide or even a collection of poetry. Though Carina suspected those might come later. But a real, honest-to-goodness novel, a story woven together from every inch of her heart, a book about love, about belonging, about identity, about being found.

It was called 'Written in the Margins', and it was more than just fiction, it was Maya's own story in every line.

The back half of Bellamy's had been rearranged for the evening, transformed from its usual cosy sprawl of mismatched chairs and softly humming solitude into something gently magical.

Fairy lights looped along every bookshelf, their glow dancing across book spines and casting golden halos against the exposed brick. The tables, usually scattered with half-read novels and abandoned mugs, had been cleared and dressed in fresh linen. Peonies in soft blush and cream sat in glass jars at the centre of each one. The air smelled faintly of rose petals and paper. It was equal parts bookshop and love letter.

Near the back counter, a cake waited beneath a glass dome, Carina’s delicate script looping across its surface buttercream:
“Written by Mommy, loved by us”

Beside it stood a tower of books, neatly arranged in staggered rows, their soft cream and warm grey covers glowing under the fairy lights. The display was striking in its simplicity. Elegant and Intentional with gold foil glinting from every spine and cover:

Written in the Margins
by Maya DeLuca-Bishop
'A love story like no other'

The cover featured an illustration that was, unmistakably, them. Two hands holding a book , one with a single wedding band, the other with a delicate gold rings Maya had given Carina over the years. A mug of espresso rested on one side of the book, a hot chocolate with overflowing marshmallows on the other. Letters lay scattered like leaves around them, the edges curled and ink-stained. It was not a traditional design but it wasn't meant to be. It was personal, honest, soft, just like Maya.

Jon had stacked a hundred copies on the table, though several hundred more were hidden in the back room, ready to replenish the pile as the night went on. He'd joked earlier that Maya would have to start signing books before guests even arrived if she wanted to make it through them all. She hadn't laughed then, she'd been too nervous too but now, standing in the middle of it all, she looked around and saw something she'd built.

Bellamy's glowed that night, not just from the lights or the warmth of the décor, but from something deeper. From memory and meaning, this place had become more than a bookshop, it had become a map of Maya's becoming.

And Carina had been part of every step.

The flowers had come from just next door, from Fiorire, Carina's floral sanctuary born from necessity, from love, from resilience.

Years ago, when her research contract had ended far too suddenly, and the threat of returning to Italy hung like fog over everything, Carina had taken her own advice: Find what makes your soul bloom. Leaving Maya, leaving the life they'd begun building, had never been an option so instead, they'd married in a small, beautiful ceremony with just enough witnesses to make it legal and more than enough love to make it sacred.

But Carina had needed something of her own, a space that was hers, and Jon, sweet, meddling Jon had handed her the lease papers for the old florist next door one rainy Wednesday afternoon and said, "You could study flowers for years or you could believe in second chances."

Fiorire, meaning to bloom, had been hers ever since.

From the street, the shop was impossible to miss. Its yellow door stood bright and warm, framed by flower boxes that spilled over with marigolds, wild poppies, and the occasional rogue sunflower. The sidewalk outside was no longer plain, not after Maya had taken a set of paints to it during one particularly slow summer, crafting a winding trail of painted petals and hand-lettered words like hope, bloom, and belonging.

Inside, Fiorire was every bit as thoughtful as Carina herself. Rows of carefully chosen vases lined the shelves. Small handmade soaps wrapped in tissue sat beside dried citrus garlands and fragrant sachets. A central table displayed bundles of seasonal blooms tied with twine. But the heart of the shop, and Carina's favourite part, was the wall of single stems.

Glass test tubes, each suspended from a wooden board, cradled individual flowers from garden roses to tulips, ranunculus to lavender and chamomile to eucalyptus. Customers could build their own bouquets, choosing by colour or memory or feeling. Each stem was labelled with a word in Maya's handwriting: gratitude, strength, longing, joy, hope, happiness. It wasn't just a florist, it was a space of expression, a place to say what you couldn't quite put into words.

It had become a local haven, just like Bellamy's. Two storefronts side by side. A love story told in blooms and books, a life stitched together not with grand gestures, but with quiet devotion.

Carina moved through the space with a proud kind of stillness. She watched Maya adjust the placement of a vase, straighten a stack of books, murmur under her breath with a blush in her cheeks. She watched the woman she had loved into her fullest self, a mother, a wife, a writer, a force to be reckoned with.

She reached out, touching Maya's arm. Just a brush of fingers.

"You did it, amore mio."

Maya turned, her face flushed with nerves, but her eyes, they were glowing. "We did."

The bell above the door had yet to ring for guests, but Maya stood near the small stage they'd cleared at the front, fingers twitching as she adjusted the corner of a linen tablecloth for the fifth time. Her pantsuit was slate blue, pressed and tailored, the same colour as the skies in her favourite childhood storybook. Her shirt was crisp, collar slightly open, and around her wrist sat a bracelet, a small, silver, bracelet engraved with words she carried close to her heart.

"The margins are where stories begin."
A gift from Emily-Jane and Charlotte-May for Mother's Day. Carina had helped her choose the quote, but the engraving was in Emily's handwriting and Charlotte's flower, the tiny, imperfect letters full of meaning.

It was the only piece of jewellery Maya wore, aside from her wedding ring as she'd never felt comfortable in frills or sparkle. The only time she'd worn a dress was on her wedding day, and even then, she'd barely made it through the ceremony without tripping over the hem. The pantsuit? This was more her, confident and grounded, her own kind of beautiful.

She was still fussing when Jon came over.

"Hey," he said, placing a hand gently over hers to still it. "Enough straightening, you're going to iron the wood smooth."

Maya laughed, but her shoulders didn't drop.

"I still don't know how this is real," she admitted, voice low.

Jon gave a small smile, one that crinkled his eyes at the corners. "Maya, you've always been a writer. You just didn't always know it."

She blinked fast, looking up at him.

"I'm proud of you," he said, his voice turning quieter, but not softer. "You left what was safe and you built something honest. You didn't just take over this shop, you gave it life, and as someone who never imagined himself a father..." He reached out, brushing a stray curl from her temple. "You changed that for me. You gave me something I didn't even know I needed."

Maya's throat tightened, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. He smelled like coffee, old books, and home.

"I don't know what I would've done without this place, without you."

Jon held her tighter. "You never would've stayed lost. You were always meant to find your own story. I just got lucky enough to watch you write it."

A quiet moment passed between them, only broken by the sound of Carina humming softly from the far end of the shop. She was fussing over the signing table, arranging pens into a little glass cup, setting down two water bottles and a napkin, "just in case of emotional tears," she'd teased. At the centre of the table sat a bouquet she'd delivered herself earlier that afternoon, the same flowers from their wedding day, peonies, ranunculus, and blush-toned garden roses. It was tied with a pale rose ribbon, fraying slightly at the edges from how often Maya picked it up just to breathe it in.

Carina glanced up and met Maya's eyes from across the room, smiling so softly it made Maya ache. They'd built this life brick by brick, book by book, bloom by bloom. And tonight, it felt like it was all blooming at once.

The front door opened. Before the bell had even finished chiming, a blur of colour burst into the shop.

"Mommy!"

Emily-Jane, six and fearless, launched herself into Maya's arms. She was wearing a dress made entirely of glitter and chaos, her curls bouncing like springs and her cheeks smudged with something sparkly.

Behind her, with more caution and a small stack of folded paper in her hands, came Charlotte-May. She was three, with wide eyes and a thoughtful mouth. She moved slowly, as though every step was a choice. She held a hand-bound picture book against her chest, one she'd made herself, complete with crayon drawings and a crooked heart drawn over the dedication page,
To Mommy, the Best Book Writer.

Andy, Amelia, Jo and Teddy trailed in behind them, laughing and chatting like they always did, a constellation of history wrapped in warmth. They were still best friends after all these years, bonded through marriage, heartbreak, babies, and late-night group texts. They'd been there through every version of each other.

"Look what I made!" Charlotte-May whispered, tugging on Maya's sleeve.

Maya crouched down to eye level. "Is that your new book? Can I be the first person to read it?"

Charlotte-May nodded solemnly and handed it over with both hands.

Emily-Jane tugged at Maya's hand. "I wore the same colour ribbon so we match!"

"You're perfect," Maya whispered, kissing her curls. "Both of you."

Carina reached them then, pressing a hand to Maya's back.

"Okay, little artists," she said, voice warm with affection, "time for your secret mission."

Both girls squealed and ran off with Carina, who led them to the side table they'd decorated themselves with tiny hand-drawn signs. It was their idea to have a corner where guests could write their stories into the margins of blank cards and slip them into the guestbook Maya had left open.

As Maya stood to her feet again, Andy stepped forward first, grinning.

"You're an author," Andy said, pride practically glowing off her. "My best friend is a published author. This means I get free books for life, right?"

Maya rolled her eyes but laughed. "I'll add you to the VIP list."

Amelia came next, offering a quiet smile. "We saved a seat at our table for you. But if you try to skip dinner for more signings, I'll tell your children."

Jo waddled up after her, visibly pregnant and glowing.

"I already signed up for story time," she said, breathless. "You're not getting rid of me just because I have twins now."

"You're getting two for the price of one," Teddy joked, arms full with a bottle of wine and a wrapped package. "And just because I have two kids doesn't mean I stopped loving a Thursday Book Club catch up."

Maya laughed as she hugged each one of them, her heart already full before a single guest had arrived.

Carina returned with their daughters, now armed with clipboards and pencils to collect guest stories.

"All ready, amore mio?"

Maya looked around the room. At Jon still behind the counter, pretending not to watch her with misty eyes. At the stack of books bearing her name. At her friends, her family, her daughters. At the woman she loved, who had helped her believe in all of this.

"I think I am," she whispered.

And the bell above the door chimed again.

By the time the first guests began to arrive, Bellamy's was glowing. The little bookshop turned café had never felt more alive.

They came in one by one, then in twos, threes and Maya's world spilling into the space she had built. Her Monday night book club, women with bright lipstick and louder opinions, stood clutching first-edition copies like treasures. The teenagers from the Friday night youth group who had once hidden behind books but now high-fived each other and whispered excitedly. Her golden oldies book club, full of women who claimed they only came for the tea, but whose favourite picks always ended up being the steamiest paperbacks. There were parents and toddlers from storytime, some of the kids already pulling books off shelves, and staff from Fiorire, Carina's shop, who had helped create the floral magic decorating the café that night.

Even the regulars, the quiet ones who never joined a group but never missed a Saturday coffee were there, seated at their favourite tables like always, as if this was just another afternoon of familiarity and comfort.

And at the heart of it all was Jon.

He stood on the small makeshift stage at the back, gripping the microphone a little too tightly, a glimmer of nerves in his eyes.

"I hate public speaking," he started, dryly. "I've only done it twice. Once for Maya and Carina's wedding and now again for Maya's book launch. Apparently, if she keeps achieving things, I'll be doing this annually."

A wave of laughter spread through the room.

"But seriously," he said, his tone softening. "When Maya told me she was leaving her stable, well-paid, completely mind-numbing accounting job to come work here with me, I think she expected me to be surprised. Maybe even try to talk her out of it."

He glanced at Maya, eyes full of quiet pride.

"But I wasn't. Because from the very first time she stepped into Bellamy's, she belonged here."

He took a breath.

"Maya always says this is my shop, that I built Bellamy's. But the truth is, I just planted the seeds. Maya's the one who made it grow, she gave it life. She's the reason there's a toddler singalong every Thursday, the reason teenagers have a place to go when school feels too loud. She's the reason this place doesn't just serve coffee and books but instead offers belonging."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd along with a few sniffles. Maya's cheeks were pink, her eyes shimmering.

"I never imagined myself a father," Jon said, voice catching for a moment. "But then Maya came along, and somehow, she made space for me in her life. And now? I can't imagine it any other way, I'm so proud of you."

He looked down at her from the stage, offering the microphone with a small, knowing smile.

"Your turn, kid."

Maya took the microphone with trembling hands, her heart already lodged somewhere in her throat.

"Wow," she whispered, her voice barely carrying at first. She blinked, tried to collect herself, then looked out at the sea of familiar faces, friends, community, family. "I wasn't going to have a book launch. I really wasn't, I thought no one would come, I thought that maybe it was better to keep it quiet, safe. But then again, I also didn't think any publisher would want to publish this book in the first place. So clearly, I've been very wrong about a lot of things."

The crowd laughed gently, encouraging.

Maya smiled, cheeks flushed. "I'm still trying to find the words. Which is ironic, because I wrote a whole book but these words, the ones tonight, they matter in a different way."

She looked toward the side, where Carina stood with her hand pressed softly to her heart. The crowd seemed to fade as Maya locked eyes with her wife.

"I want to start with the person who made this possible. Not just the book or this night. But me, this version of me. Carina, I know you don't like being the centre of attention, but tonight I need you to know, every word in this book exists because of you."

She paused, voice thick.

"You never asked me to be anything other than myself. You never told me to be louder or braver or smarter, you just believed that I already was. You met every one of my fears with love, every doubt with certainty. When I said I couldn't, you said, 'But what if you could?' You've never let me hide from the things I care about. You've held one hand on my back and the other in mine, every step forward, you were always right beside me."

Carina's eyes were glistening.

"You didn't just encourage me to write," Maya continued. "You lived this story with me, you are the story. This book is filled with your laughter, your steadiness, your hands in mine and your voice in my heart. It's a love letter to you, to us. And no dedication in the world could ever be enough. But know, it's yours, completely."

Carina blinked back tears, pressing her fingers to her lips.

Maya took a steadying breath, and then smiled toward the front row, her voice softening.

"But I have to admit something. When I told my daughters that I had written a book, they were somewhat underwhelmed."

The crowd chuckled.

"They were proud. Of course, they were proud. But also a little heartbroken because it wasn't a children's book."

Maya turned, her smile turning warm and conspiratorial. "Carina, would you bring them up for me?"

Carina stepped forward, gently guiding Charlotte-May and Emily-Jane up to the front. Emily bounced, full of uncontainable joy, and Charlotte clung to her book like it was a secret too precious to let go of.

Maya knelt down slightly and brought the microphone to their level.

"Emily," she said gently, "can you tell everyone what you asked me to write instead?"

Emily stood a little taller. "We wanted a story about two mommies."

The crowd melted instantly, but Maya waited, giving her daughter space.

"One who reads bedtime stories in Italian," Emily continued, her hands animated, "and one who reads them in English like ours do."

"And what else?" Maya asked softly.

Charlotte spoke up now, her voice a whisper. "They leave notes in their books."

Maya's throat ached. "And why did you want other kids to know that?"

Emily's eyes sparkled. "Because some kids have two mommies, and some kids don't but love always shows up in stories. Especially the ones written in the margins."

Maya closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed.

She reached behind the table and gently lifted two smaller books, each one brightly illustrated, their covers soft and inviting.

"Which is why," Maya said, turning back to the crowd, "I wrote this."

"Love between the lines- A love through bedtime stories in two languages"

The audience gasped, then burst into warm, spontaneous applause.

Maya looked at her girls. "These are for you. You asked, and mommy wrote them because your story matters just as much as mine."

Emily's squeal of joy echoed through the café as she took the book, clutching it to her chest. Charlotte-May whispered "thank you" and hugged Maya tight, burying her face in her mother's shoulder.

Maya took a breath and stood again, blinking quickly against tears.

"I couldn't dedicate a book to my wife without also dedicating one to our daughters," she said, her voice steady now. "Because these two, these wild, brilliant, beautiful girls, they are the greatest chapters I'll ever write."

She turned back to the crowd. "I'm thrilled to say that the publisher is releasing both books. The memoir and the children's edition will both be available from next week. But because I know what you're all like, yes, I have copies here tonight of both."

Cheers erupted from the crowd, and Jon gave an exaggerated thumbs-up from behind the counter.

Maya laughed through a tear. "But before we begin the signing... I have one more thing to do."

She looked at her daughters again, then out toward the sea of eager faces.

"Tonight, I'm going to read Love Between the Lines right here, right now. Because this story is about beginnings and stories for kids matter too."

The chairs were rearranged in moments. Toddlers curled up in laps, teenagers leaned against shelves, book club ladies wiped their eyes discreetly. As Carina sat cross-legged with Charlotte-May nestled in her lap and Emily-Jane perched at her side, Maya opened the book.

"Okay," Maya said, taking a small breath and glancing at Carina, who nodded encouragingly from the side, her hand pressed over her heart. "This is a story written by me... but it really belongs to two very important people."

Emily-Jane bounced in her seat. "Us!"

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

Maya smiled. "Exactly. This is Love Between the Lines. Are you ready?"

Charlotte-May nodded shyly and leaned against her mama.

Maya opened the book.

Page 1
In a bookshop quiet, warm, and wide,
Two mommies found love side by side.
One liked her coffee bold and strong,
The other's hot chocolate all day long.
One spoke English, the other spoke Italian,
But both believed in tales worth telling.

Emily gasped, "That's Mama and you!"
Charlotte said softly, "And Bellamy's too!

Page 2
They didn't meet the normal way,
Not in the park or on a weekday.
They met between paper and ink,
With notes in the margins that made them think.

"That's your book!" Emily grinned with delight.

Page 3
They wrote little letters, so tiny and true,
With hopes and with dreams tucked carefully through.
The book was a bridge from her to her,
Their hearts beat louder with every stir.

Page 4
Soon came a life all bursting with hue,
With sidewalk chalk in pink and blue.

With flower-filled walls and love shining bright,
And bedtime stories in two languages each night.

Charlotte smiled. "That's our garden!"
"And the playroom with stars all over the ceiling!"

Page 5
One day, their family grew with cheer,
A girl full of sunshine and laughter clear.
Then came another, gentle and bright,
As soft as the moon and dreams at night.
With mommy's eyes and mama's heart,
And stories to share right from the start.

Page 6

At bedtime they'd snuggle, all cozy and warm,
One voice soft like sunshine, the other a storm.
"Once upon a time," one mommy would start,
"C'era una volta," came straight from the heart.

Carina blinked as her eyes filled with tears,
Maya smiled. "You gave me that dream."

Page 7
The girls loved stories of castles and stars,
Of dragons and dreams and magical jars.
But best were the books that looked like their home,
With two loving mommies of their very own.

Page 8
One day they asked, with eyes open wide,
"Why don't we have our story inside?"
One mommy grinned and gave them a hug,
"I think it's time we write it, my love."

Charlotte whispered, "You really did."
Maya nodded, "Because of you two.”

Page 9
Inspired by a tale of espresso and sweets,
Of rainy-day paint and bouquet treats.
Of bookshops and blankets, of pancakes and rain,
Of hearts that found joy, again and again.

Page 10
And now if you wonder, or need to be sure,
What love looks like in when it's gentle and pure.
Just turn these pages, line by line,
And you'll find our story, it’s yours and it’s mine.

Maya closed the book, "and that," she said softly, "was written with love."

The room was quiet for a moment then applause broke like a wave, warm and heartfelt.

Emily jumped to her feet first, flinging her arms around Maya's neck. "That was perfect, Mommy. Just like I wanted."

Charlotte-May stood quietly, holding onto Maya's arm with one hand, her other still gripping her copy of the book. "You made us real," she whispered.

Maya crouched down and pulled them both close. "You've always been real, baby. Now the world just gets to see how special you are."

Carina joined them, kneeling on the floor to wrap her arms around all three. "They're going to read this book in homes and classrooms and libraries," she whispered. "And every time they do, they'll know what love looks like."

Behind the counter, Jon moved with practiced ease, but there was a different kind of weight to his hands tonight, pride. He wasn't just pouring coffee or bagging up copies of Maya's books. He was watching someone he loved take flight.

He rang through another purchase, placing a copy of Written in the Margins next to the illustrated children's edition with absolute pride. "Two stories written by one remarkable woman," he said, his voice low, his smile soft. "You're holding something really special."

The customer beamed and nodded, brushing a tear from their cheek. "She's changed something in me already, and I haven't even read the first chapter."

Jon's eyes misted, but he simply gave a nod. "She changes everyone she meets, it's just who she is."

The line continued to grow, not just of adults, but of children too, some clinging to a parent's hand, some gripping their books like treasure maps.

At the small round table beneath a string of fairy lights and a paper banner reading 'Maya Bishop – Book Signing', the woman they'd all come to see sat steady, glowing with quiet awe.

The line for Maya snaked gently past the front bookcases, curving by the window seat where Charlotte-May now sat with her own copy, holding it open on her lap as if it were a priceless treasure. Meanwhile, Emily-Jane, was helping Carina hand out stickers that read "I read Love between the lines" to every child there.

Maya was signing without rush, her handwriting looping with care, with each page she paused, a moment made just for the person in front of her.

A small girl with glitter shoes and a shy voice stepped up first. Her name was Ava, she clutched her book tightly and whispered, "I like that the mommies read in two languages. My mommy reads in Spanish."

Maya bent forward slightly to meet her eyes and smiled. "That's magic, Ava. Your mommy's stories sound beautiful."

Inside the cover, Maya carefully wrote:
Dear Ava,
Keep reading in every language your heart speaks. You are a story all on your own.
Love, Maya

Next was Eleanor, a woman with silver hair and kind eyes who held her copy of Written in the Margins like a lifeline. "I lost my wife two years ago," she said, her voice wavering. "We used to leave notes in cookbooks. I haven't been able to read since she passed... but I think I'm going to try yours."

Maya gently touched Eleanor's hand. "Thank you for carrying her with you tonight. That kind of love never leaves the page."

She signed,
To Eleanor,
Some love never fades. Thank you for sharing yours with me.
Warmest love,
Maya

Then came Leo, a boy of five, bouncing with unfiltered joy, his book upside down and a crayon tucked behind his ear. "I like the painting on the sidewalk!" he announced.

"I do too," Maya laughed. "That was inspired by someone just like you."

She signed his copy with care:
Dear Leo,
Keep painting the world the way only you can. It's brighter because of you.
Paint it bold,
Love Maya

Further down the line, two young women approached, hand-in-hand. They wore matching locket necklaces and wide, grateful eyes.

"We didn't grow up with stories like this," one said, blinking back tears. "I think we would've been a lot less scared if we had."

Maya stood then, reaching across the table to grasp both their hands. "You're writing your own story now, and it's beautiful."

She signed their copy:
To Amy & Jess,
You are the story you always needed. Let your love be loud and unshakable.
With all my heart,
Maya

One by one, they came.

Parents who'd attended Maya's toddler storytime sessions and brought their children back to say thank you. Teens who once found quiet in the corners of Bellamy's, now older, stronger, still carrying notebooks filled with poems Maya had helped them believe were worth writing. Members of her golden oldies romance club who clutched their copies dramatically and said things like, "I'm ready to fall in love all over again, darling."

To each of them, Maya gave something. A sentence, a word, a piece of herself. She asked questions, remembered names. She wrote in every copy with intent, letting the ink carry weight and warmth.

To Matteo, who dreams of being a firefighter and a writer, both are heroes in their own way.

To Isla, who reads with a flashlight after bedtime, never stop being curious in the quiet.

To Ruth, who fell in love at 72, your love story is only just beginning.

Jon watched from behind the counter, his arms folded now, no longer working just witnessing. He caught Carina's eye from across the room , both of them still, both of them full.

Bellamy's had always been a home for stories. But tonight, it was Maya's story that wrapped around its walls.

Carina stood near the front of the room, her fingers curled lightly around the cover of Written in the Margins. She hadn't moved in some time, not because she couldn't, but because she didn't want to. There was something sacred about this moment, and she didn't want to risk blinking and missing it.

Her Maya was sitting at that table, pen in hand, cheeks flushed from too many compliments and not enough water, smiling with that nervous but dazzling grin Carina had fallen in love with the very first time she'd seen it across a crowded bookshop. The same Maya who once mumbled her way through introductions in a college classroom, convinced she didn't belong. The same Maya who used to cry into Carina's lap at 2 a.m., whispering, "What if I'm not good enough?" while Carina combed her fingers gently through her hair and always reminded her that she was.

Carina clutched the book a little tighter, eyes scanning the gold-embossed title as if it might change under her fingers.

Written in the Margins
by Maya Deluca-Bishop
'A love story like no other'

Maya had made sure she acknowledged her, not just privately, not just in hushed moments in bed or with whispered thank-yous when the girls had finally gone to sleep. No, Maya had written it down and inked it into permanence. She had told the world about them, not in grand declarations or sweeping metaphors, but in honest, steady truths. Of how they met, how they loved, how they fought and healed and grew. Of how they became mothers, how they built a life filled with hot chocolate and Italian lullabies and toddler storytimes and book clubs where Carina had often sat in the corner just to watch Maya light up.

And then there was Love Between the Lines, the children's version. The one written because Emily had said, with all the sincerity of a six-year-old with glitter on her cheeks, "But mommy, where's the book about us?"

Carina had barely held herself together when Maya handed their daughters their copies despite having seen it weeks prior and cried more than the book dedicated to herself. A bright, illustrated cover. Two mommies sitting on a porch, one with coffee, one with hot chocolate, two girls on their laps, one with curls and a dimple, the other with a bow and her book in hand. Stories in two languages and notes in the margins. It was their life, captured like a photograph but in ink and crayon and quiet beauty.

She looked back to her wife now, smiling with a teenager who wanted to be an author too, her hand resting on the shoulder of a boy who asked if she would write a story about dragons next. Maya was in her element, so naturally it made Carina's chest ache.

Ten years ago, she never could have imagined this.

Not this shop, this moment, this life. Not this version of Maya who was so confident and calm, someone who laughed in front of strangers and introduced herself not as an accountant or a bookstore manager, but as a writer. A real writer. She never imagined having two daughters who stole her breath and filled every corner of her heart, or a wife who would turn the story of how they met into something the world could hold in their hands.

But the truth was, Carina had never imagined any kind of life before Maya.

She had lived, yes. Worked and studied. She had built a life of intellect and precision, one that made sense on paper. But then came a bookshop, a note she wrote in a margin and a blonde with cautious eyes and stories locked inside. Suddenly, everything she knew about love and possibility, cracked wide open.

She had watched Maya through the years, not from a distance, never from the sidelines, but always close, always with her heart in her throat and her love stitched quietly into the everyday.

Carina could still picture it, Maya in the early days of Bellamy's, her hair thrown up into a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a toddler balanced expertly on one hip while pouring juice into mismatched cups with the other. Emily-Jane, just barely walking, already a wild spark of energy, giggling as Maya bounced her gently, offering stickers to other children with her free hand and singing the chorus of The Gruffalo with the same dramatic flair she now used during public readings.

And tucked safely beneath Maya's apron, not quite ready for the world yet, was Charlotte-May, a tiny flutter still growing. Carina would sit in the back of toddler Tuesdays, Emily resting against her chest, and just watch. Watch Maya read aloud with a voice filled with warmth and wonder. Watch her make room for every child, every parent, every heart that needed a place to belong.

Those mornings had been magic. Mayhem and juice spills and glitter everywhere but magic, nonetheless.

Then there were the Fridays.

Friday nights were supposed to be rest nights, reset nights, but not for Maya. No, those were book club nights. Her favourite kind, not because of the books, though she loved them but because it was the community. It was the laughter and the way people would open themselves up, page by page, just as willingly as they opened the stories in their laps.

Carina never missed a Friday if she could help it. Even after the longest of shifts in the flower shop, even when the girls were cranky or Carina was tired, she'd scoop them up, drop them upstairs at Jon's for their weekly sleepover, and come back down with a cup of tea just in time to grab the final spare seat.

She'd always sit at the back, not because she didn't want to be involved but because she liked watching Maya simply be Maya.

There was something about her in that setting, surrounded by books and warm light, usually barefoot when the day had been too long, gesturing wildly as she spoke about character arcs or hidden meanings. Her face would flush with passion, her hands painting pictures in the air, her whole self alive in a way that left Carina speechless every time.

Sometimes, Maya would catch her eye and smile, small and knowing. A 'thank you', a 'you're here', a 'this matters' because you see it. Carina always smiled back because watching Maya in her happy place never got old.

She watched her build it all. The toddler groups, the teenage reading circles, the parent socials, the golden oldies club that insisted on reading smut and giggled like teenagers about it. She watched Maya pour herself into everything from carefully planning story themes for the month to remembering the names of every single child who showed up with crumpled drawings and chocolate-sticky fingers.

She watched her build a home inside those walls, not just for their family, but for everyone who walked through the door.

Carina remembered the hard parts too, the nights Maya cried over her laptop, papers due for her English Lit course, imposter syndrome gnawing at her like a ghost. She'd say, "What am I doing? I'm not smart enough for this." And Carina would hold her, soft and steady, whispering, "You're not only smart enough but you're meant for this."

And then there were the mornings after, when Maya got a paper back, glowing with praise, and tried to pretend she wasn't proud. But Carina always knew, it was in the way her eyes sparkled, the way she sat up a little straighter, the way she told the story at breakfast as if it were no big deal, though it clearly was.

Carina had never been more in awe of anyone. This life they'd built, the shop, the books, the girls, the love that lived in every shelf and paper lantern and inked margin, it was more than she ever could have imagined.

And somehow, Maya had told the world about it.

She had taken the story of their love, their family, and their community, and she had written it down, not to keep it safe, but to set it free.

Carina blinked away the warmth in her eyes as she looked down at the book in her hands, the weight of it something almost holy.

The line had thinned. Most of the parents had gathered up their little ones, tired eyes and crumb-filled pockets, offering soft goodbyes and hugs that smelled like talcum and bedtime. Maya had smiled through each farewell, had crouched to say thank you to every child, leaving behind messages of bravery and wonder in the inside covers of their books. But now, with the crowd mostly gone, she finally allowed herself a breath.

Across the room, she saw Carina. Her wife stood with the book still cradled in her hands, completely unaware of the soft chaos still happening around her. The sleeves of her blouse were lightly pushed up, her curls messier now, and she looked like something out of one of the novels Maya used to shelve before she believed she could ever write one herself.

There was a gentleness to her in that moment. A stillness. She was lost in thought, eyes sweeping over the embossed gold lettering as though she could read the whole thing just by touch. Maya's chest ached in the best way.

She leaned toward Jon. "I'm taking a quick break," she murmured, nodding to the slowly emptying queue. Her hand brushed his arm, warm with gratitude. "Thanks for holding down the fort."

Jon gave her a soft look, that proud half-smile she'd come to rely on. "Go. She's waiting for you, even if she doesn't know it yet."

The Golden Oldies were still going strong in the back corner, loudly debating the ending of The Kiss Quotient and passing around biscuits as though the night might never end. Maya adored them. They'd shown up every week without fail, rain or shine or heartbreak, always in coordinated outfits and with wild opinions on fictional romance. They were family now, in their own way. She smiled in their direction, blew a kiss to Jean, and stepped away from the table.

Her steps were slow, measured, she didn't want to startle Carina from whatever world she had wandered into. But it didn't matter because Carina noticed her anyway. Her head lifted the moment Maya got close, and her smile widened in that particular way that made Maya feel like the most loved person in the world.

Maya slid into her arms without a word. They stood like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, breathing in the scent of ink and flowers and the steady warmth of ten years built from nothing but a note in a margin. Around them, Bellamy's hummed in low, contented tones, the laughter of friends, the clink of mugs, the flutter of paper pages. But in that moment, there was only this.

Only them.

"I needed this," Maya whispered against Carina's shoulder.

"I know," Carina said, kissing the side of her head. "I was waiting for you."

Maya pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "Will you come sit with me? Just for the last few?"

Carina didn't even hesitate. "Always."

They returned to the signing table together, their fingers still laced. Maya resumed her seat, and Carina perched gently beside her, hands folded neatly, heart bursting with a pride she still hadn't put into words.

The remaining signings were slower now, more personal, a few teenagers from Maya's Wednesday after school reading circle who blushed as they spoke, one even stammering, "You make me want to write, too."

A young mother approached with shaking hands and tears in her eyes, saying, "I've never seen a book like this before... a children's story that looks like my family."

And one older man, grey at the temples, his cardigan misbuttoned, held his copy to his chest and whispered, "I lost my partner ten years ago. We used to read together, just like your story. Thank you for bringing me back to that."

Maya wrote every note by hand, no template, no repetition, just soft, small truths that felt right for each person.

"You are more than enough."

"The world needs your story too."

"You are seen."

When it was finally over, Maya let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. The night had been everything, it was exhausting and exhilarating and deeply, but beautifully hers.

She turned just in time to see her daughters curled together on the worn green couch near the front, Emily's curls tangled around Charlotte's bow, both sound asleep under the quilt someone's grandmother had donated years ago.

"They're out," Jon said softly, approaching with a sleepy smile. He kissed Maya's cheek and gave Carina a warm look. "It's your anniversary after all," he added, and winked. "I'll take them up."

"Thank you, Dad," Maya said, reaching for his hand. "Grazie papa" Carina added.

He nodded and bent to gather his granddaughters, murmuring gentle words, the girls stirred just slightly, Charlotte nestling closer into his shoulder. The warmth of that image, of Jon carrying their daughters upstairs above the bookshop where their story had begun nearly undid Maya.

But then came her friends, Andy, Jo, Teddy, and Amelia stepped forward, each wearing tired smiles and clutching paper cups that had long since gone cold. Maya grinned and reached behind the counter, pulling out four individually wrapped books, tied in ribbon, each with a handwritten note slipped beneath the cover.

"Don't read them until you get home," she warned, "and yes, I know you'll all ignore me."

Andy raised a brow. "Is it steamy?"

"Deeply personal," Maya replied with a smirk. "You'll cry."

Teddy hugged her tight. "I'm already crying."

Jo placed Maya's hand on her bump and laughed. "I'll blame hormones, and the twins but also this" she held up the book "thank you."

Amelia said nothing at first, just brushed a kiss to Maya's temple and whispered, "You wrote something beautiful. I'm so proud of you, Maya."

Andy lingered as the others began to gather their things, her hand rubbing idly at the back of her neck like she was working up the nerve to say something. Maya tilted her head, already sensing the shift in her usually unshakable best friend.

"You're proud of me," Maya teased softly, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Admit it."

Andy rolled her eyes, but it was all for show. "You're unbearable."

Amelia, standing behind her, arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms knowingly.

Maya smirked. "She's made you soft, hasn't she?"

Andy didn't argue this time. Instead, she exhaled slowly and finally met Maya's eyes, the sarcasm dropping away like a coat too heavy for the room they were in.

"I am proud of you," she said, her voice quieter than usual, rougher too. "I've watched you grow into someone who knows exactly who she is. You built this, Maya. You built it with love and words and stubbornness. And... I don't say it enough, but it's incredible."

Maya's mouth parted slightly, the honesty catching her off guard. Andy rarely spoke like this, not out loud, but Maya felt it, she always had when it came to Andy. Still, hearing it out loud was a different kind of ache, a beautiful one.

Then Andy blinked quickly, and to Maya's astonishment, her eyes shimmered.

"Oh my God," Maya whispered, eyes wide with mock horror. "Are you crying?"

Andy pulled her in for a hug before Maya could weaponize it. "Don't tell Jo," she murmured, voice low in Maya's ear. "But I'll blame it on the hormones too."

Maya froze for the briefest second, heart thudding.

Andy pulled back, just enough to look her in the eyes, and there it was, that quiet truth, the one that had lived between them for a while now but had never been spoken aloud. After the heartbreak. After the loss. After the failed IVF. After everything.

"You're.."

Andy nodded once, subtle but firm.

Maya could've burst with joy right then and there. Instead, she leaned in and kissed Andy's cheek softly, with reverence. A thank you. A promise. A celebration.

Then she turned to Amelia, whose eyes were already glossy with knowing. Maya kissed her too, a moment that said, "I'm so happy for you both" without the need for words.

Maya watched as their little group began to drift toward the door, Jo laughing as Teddy helped her into her coat, Andy pretending she wasn't wiping her eyes, Amelia reaching for her hand as they stepped out into the warm night air.

And then there were two again.

Maya turned the lock slowly, taking one last look at the quiet hum of Bellamy's, its corners still glowing with fairy lights and fading warmth. The shelves were a little more askew now, the scent of tea still hung in the air, and empty paper cups littered tabletops beside napkins smudged with lipstick and laughter.

The night had been magic. But this? This was the part she'd been waiting for.

She turned back toward the shop floor, and there was Carina, just where she always was, waiting.

She stood by the armchair they had claimed as their own years ago, that deep, wide-backed seat by the window that had hosted everything from stolen glances to bedtime stories. Maya didn't speak as she crossed the room, her steps slower now, unhurried. There was no need to rush.

She sank into Carina's lap like she belonged there, and she did. Carina wrapped her arms around her instinctively, her cheek pressing against Maya's temple, the rhythm of their breathing falling into time.

"Can you believe," Carina whispered, brushing her lips against Maya's hair, "we sat here for the first time exactly ten years ago?"

Maya closed her eyes and smiled. "I can still feel what it felt like."

That night lived in her bones. The rain had tapped softly against the windows, the whole café dim except for the glow of reading lamps. She'd been a stranger then, or so she'd thought until Carina had sat down with that espresso and that smile and made Maya feel known in a way that was terrifying and breathtaking all at once. What started as quiet conversation turned to laughter, then secrets shared across steaming mugs. At some point, Maya had pulled her feet up under her, and Carina had leaned in closer, and the gap between them had simply disappeared.

"You sat in my lap," Maya murmured. "And we stayed until dad fell asleep in his book."

Carina chuckled, her fingers drawing soft patterns against Maya's arm. "And then we went back to mine because you didn't want Amelia, Jo or Teddy to meet me just yet"

"We didn't leave each other for two whole days and practically lived in your apartment," Carina said, laughing again. "If I didn't have work Monday morning"

"we might still be there, but I'm glad we've never spent a day apart since."

Maya tilted her head back, and their eyes met, sparkling with memory and warmth.

"I'm sorry," Maya said softly, "that tonight fell on our anniversary. I would've picked another date if I could've."

Carina was already shaking her head. "Amore, stop. You wrote our love story and you told the world it was worth reading. That's more than any anniversary present I could ever wish for."

Maya hesitated and smirked. "Wanna bet?"

She stood, just long enough to retrieve a large, wrapped parcel from behind the counter. Carina sat up straighter in the armchair, her brows drawing together as she reached out.

"We already exchanged gifts," she said with amused suspicion.

"This one's different," Maya said, her voice lower now, steadier. "This one's for us."

Carina took the package and carefully untied the ribbon. She peeled back the wrapping, expecting perhaps a framed photo or a notebook , something sentimental but her breath caught.

It was a book. Heavy, substantial and familiar but different at the same time.

Her fingers ran over the textured cover. It looked like 'Written in the Margins' at first, it had the same delicate illustration of two hands holding a book, their rings visible, coffee cups by their sides, the usual softness of Maya's published edition.

But this one was personal. Intimate.

Written in the Margins
"Our Love Story"
By Maya DeLuca-Bishop
Dedicated to my wife, Carina.

Carina blinked at it, her throat tightening.

And then she opened it.

The first page held a handwritten dedication:

To the woman who showed me that love doesn't live quietly in the margins, it demands space on the page.

You have been my loudest encouragement and my softest place to land. You've held my hand through fear and failure, through doubt and beginnings. You taught me that I didn't have to shrink myself to belong in this world, that I could take up space, be heard, and be loved exactly as I am.

Before you, I thought stories like ours existed only in fiction. But you showed me that real love is made up of late-night cups of tea, of sleepy forehead kisses, of waiting up and showing up. It's sticky notes on the fridge and laughter over burnt toast. It's the quiet courage of choosing each other again and again even when life gets loud.

Thank you for being the story I never knew I was brave enough to write.
For every word that lives in this book, you are the reason it exists.
You are my beginning, my middle, and every turning page.
And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you know you are not just part of my story, but the very heart of it.

Forever yours,
Maya

Carina's eyes burned instantly, tears streamed down her face, but it was what came next that undid her completely. She knew 'Written in the Margins', she could tell you every page by heart because she had seen it in every version, all except this one.

On one page: the familiar printed text of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, their original book had been carefully reproduced. It was the very story that had started everything and alongside it, Maya had placed her own words, gently recounting the afternoon she first found Carina's note. The photograph Jon had taken from behind the counter that very same day sat just below it was Maya, with her brow furrowed in concentration, pen held to the edge of the page, entirely unaware that her life was about to change. On the opposite page was another photo, one Jon had captured weeks earlier, Carina, sitting by the window, eyes cast down over the same book, her fingers delicately brushing the margin. They had both sat here, separately, unknowingly reaching toward the same story.

Tucked into the spine was a folded envelope, not the real one, but a perfect scan of the first note Carina had written and tucked between the pages. "I didn't expect anyone to read them, let alone understand them. But you did. And it made something quiet inside me feel less heavy". Maya had scanned every note after that, laid them beside the matching pages in Pilgrim, with her written reflections following each one on how they made her feel, what they revealed, what they pulled from her that she never even knew was inside.

Carina gasped softly as she saw it again, now preserved on thick cream paper, next to her own reply. The letters weren't just inserted, they were honoured. Each one had been printed next to the corresponding part of the original book, with Maya's retelling, with her memories of waiting for Carina's answer, of rereading her words late at night, of feeling more seen than she ever had before.

There was a full spread devoted to the first evening they sat together with the photographs Jon had taken from the counter, before they even knew they were being watched. Maya, laughing with her whole face, Carina leaning in like she couldn't bear to be anywhere else. On the next page, Maya's written memory 'I asked her to sit, thinking she would sit on the chair beside me, but my heart double its beats when she decided the chair that wasn't made for two, was perfect for the two of us.'

On a series of pages midway through the book, Maya had included the scanned napkin notes they used to leave for each other when words felt too big to speak aloud. Things like "You made the tea, so I made the toast" and "You looked beautiful this morning, even in your pyjamas" were written in soft ink, preserved like poetry. These were paired with her reflections on their everyday life and how ordinary love had become her favourite kind.

Tucked between chapters of their early life together, there was a page titled simply "Us, Out There."

Carina's breath caught the moment she turned it. It was filled with the kind of photos that felt sun-drenched even under soft lamplight, pictures of a time when it was just the two of them, chasing the wonders of the world hand in hand.

There was one of them outside the Duomo in Florence, Maya squinting into the sun, her arm thrown around Carina's shoulder, the two of them glowing with the giddiness of new love.

Another showed them in Paris, standing beneath a grey sky, sharing an umbrella and laughing as rain streaked the Seine behind them. Maya had captioned it, "We missed the Louvre tour, but I'd pick you in the rain every time."

Another photo was Tokyo at night, their faces illuminated by glowing signage. One taken at a street market in Bangkok where Maya was clearly mid-laugh, her mouth open in surprise after trying something far too spicy.
"Worth it for the kiss that followed," Carina read aloud from the corner of that page, grinning.

And then came the page that made her still completely.

A single photo, larger than the others. Taken on a whim, in the golden glow of late afternoon. They were at the English coast, there were no filters, no flash, no fanfare. Just the two of them, sitting on the sand at an empty beach, both holding cones of ice cream. Maya had snapped the photo with the timer and barely made it back in time, but it didn't matter. The picture captured everything, the quiet joy, the soft way their foreheads leaned together, how Carina's hand rested gently over Maya's heart.

Beneath it, in Maya's unmistakable handwriting:

"Before we knew what forever meant, I already knew it would be with you."

Every photo had a note or scribble beside it.
"Carina got sunburned in Scotland because she refused to wear sun cream. Still insists it was cloudy."
"That night in Nice, three glasses of wine, no shoes but best laugh of my life."
"I loved this version of us. Just as much as the next one."

Carina ran her fingers over the images slowly, reverently. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "We were just kids."

Maya smiled, watching her. "Kids who fell fast and never hit the ground."

Carina's eyes glistened. "I remember thinking, if this is all we ever have, it'll be enough. But it wasn't the end, it was barely even the beginning."

Maya leaned closer, brushing her lips against Carina's shoulder.

"I wanted this page in the book because I never want us to forget," she said softly. "Before our children, before we built our lives, before the world asked anything of us, we chose each other."

Next came a chapter that featured photos of their birthdays, of Carina's cakes slightly uneven, topped with candles and decorations by tiny, eager hands. There were notes Maya had written in Carina's cards, both silly and sweet, and some far too emotional to read without tearing up. One page was dedicated to the birthday where Carina gave Maya a small envelope and inside it, the first ultrasound photo of Emily-Jane. Maya's voice, written beside it, read: "I thought I had known love in its entirety, then I saw it flicker on a screen and realised I had only known the beginning."

Several spreads in the centre were a mosaic of motherhood, of Maya reading to Emily-Jane, who sat tucked into her hip like she'd always belonged there, and later photos of toddler Tuesdays, where Carina sat with Charlotte-May in her lap, watching Maya animate storybooks with her entire heart. Captions read: "They saw the kind of mother I always hoped to be, because of the woman who believed I could."

Tucked between the pages of Maya's description of their wedding day were the vows she and Carina had written in secret but now proudly printed in their own handwriting. Beside them were photographs of that day, Maya's dress slightly crumpled from dancing too hard, Carina barefoot by the end of the night, both of them radiant and tangled in one another. Maya's note beneath it read simply "This was the moment I understood the phrase: to be entirely known and still entirely loved."

There were even photos of fridge sticky notes, scanned and placed alongside stories of early chaos, "Milk, eggs, also please don't be mad that I ate the last cookie" and letters tucked into packed lunches. Each one was its own little vow, a promise that said I see you and I still choose you.

Further pages held photos of single-stemmed flowers Carina had left on Maya's pillow. A daisy after a hard shift. A violet after a fight. A peony when she had been too sad to speak. Each image paired with Maya's recounting of why the flower had mattered, what Carina had whispered as she laid them down, or what she hadn't needed to say at all.

Toward the end, Maya had included the most personal parts of her story: her journal entries. One showed the raw confession she'd written the night before she first told Carina "I love you." It read, "I think if I say it out loud, I'll break, but maybe that's the point. Maybe she's the kind of love that remakes you."

And then there were the photographs of them all as a family. A shot of Maya asleep on the Bellamy's sofa with both girls curled against her. A messy table after pancake mornings at Jon's. A photo of their anniversary one year, where Emily had made them wear paper crowns and dance in the living room. Pages where Maya had printed out parts of her daughters' own stories, the book Charlotte wrote and folded herself, the idea Emily had scribbled on the back of a cereal box and declared "Mommy's next novel."

She looked up at Maya, eyes glistening with tears, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Maya... this is everything. This is us."

Maya smiled, her own eyes shimmering as she reached forward to cradle Carina's cheek in her palm. "I wanted the world to know our story, but more than that, I wanted you to see what I see when I look back at our story. The love, the laughter, the growth, the becoming. Every little note, every flower, every late night and new chapter, it's always been you."

Carina blinked back a tear, then another. "You've written it all..."

"I've written the first ten years," Maya said gently, her thumb brushing Carina's cheek. "But there is still so much more to come. So many stories still waiting to unfold. So many chapters I haven't dreamed of yet, and I only want to write them with you by my side."

Carina let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed, joyous, deeply in love. "Always."

They leaned into each other again, in that same chair they sat in 10 years prior, foreheads touching, a kiss pressed between promises and pages, between the past and whatever came next. The world outside Bellamy's was still and for a moment, time felt like it bent just for them.

Maya looked down at the book once more, then back up at the woman who had changed her life with a single note in the margin.

And finally, she turned to the very last page. In Maya's familiar script, pressed into the paper with gold leaf, elegant and glowing she had written:

"What started in the margins became a story too big for the edges. It needed a whole book to hold the kind of love we built."

Chapter Text

The main story of Written in the Margins has now come to a close, leading us all the way to the ten–year epilogue.

What follows from here are a collection of one–shots, written by request, to fill in the years between the end of the main story and that epilogue.

These one–shots will explore both the big milestones, engagements, weddings, babies, and career changes as well as the smaller but equally meaningful moments: Christmas traditions, cozy date nights, afternoons in Bellamy’s, and time spent with friends.

Requests for these one–shots will remain open. If there’s something you’d love to see, feel free to leave a comment here or reach out on Twitter/X @kelmarie1607.

Finally, I just want to say the biggest thank you to all of you. I never imagined this story would receive such an incredible response, and I’m beyond grateful that you’ve loved reading it as much as I’ve loved writing it.

Chapter Text

Epilogue - Years ago, when her research contract had ended far too suddenly, and the threat of returning to Italy hung like fog over everything, Carina had taken her own advice: Find what makes your soul bloom. Leaving Maya, leaving the life they'd begun building, had never been an option so instead, they'd married in a small, beautiful ceremony with just enough witnesses to make it legal and more than enough love to make it sacred.

Carina didn't even take her coat off. The door clicked shut behind her, and the moment Maya's arms wrapped around her, the dam broke. A sob tore from her chest, deep and unrestrained, as if every ounce of grief, fear, and exhaustion she had held back all day found its escape at once.

Maya didn't ask. She didn't even flinch. She only held her tighter, grounding her, pressing kisses into Carina's hair as her shoulders shook. Carina clung to her like she might disappear, face buried against the curve of Maya's neck, tears soaking into her shirt.

"I've got you," Maya whispered, her hand rubbing circles against her back. "I've got you, love. You don't have to say a word. Just let it out."

And Carina did. Every sob rattled through her whole body, like the weight of the world she'd been carrying had finally grown too heavy to bear. But Maya stayed strong for both of them, arms locked securely around her, her steady breaths a rhythm to hold onto.

They stayed like that until Carina's tears dulled into quiet shivers. Only then did Maya guide her gently to the sofa. She settled first and pulled Carina down with her, tucking her against her chest, as though she could shield her from whatever storm had followed her home.

For a long while, they stayed there. Maya's fingers swept softly along her cheek, brushing away tears as fast as they fell. She pressed tender kisses against her temple, her brow, her hair, whispering nothing but love. Her attention never wavered, every ounce of herself devoted to the woman trembling in her arms.

After nearly twenty minutes of silence, Carina finally shifted. Her lips found Maya's in a kiss that was deep and desperate, heavy with all the words she couldn't quite form. When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against Maya's.

"Promise me forever," she whispered, her voice raw.

Maya didn't even hesitate. "Forever, I promise" she breathed, sealing it with another kiss.

Carina swallowed hard, then finally spoke. "The contracts... they're not being renewed. They told us today, we only have six weeks left and then..." Her voice cracked. "And then I have to leave."

Maya's chest tightened, but her hold only grew stronger. She didn't need the explanation. She knew what Carina's visa depended on. She knew what six weeks meant.

"I promise you forever," Maya repeated softly, as if saying it enough times could anchor them against the unraveling of everything else.

Carina let out a broken laugh. "How can you still promise that? When my visa expires? When they'll make me leave?"

Maya cupped her face in both hands, steady and sure, her eyes fierce even through the tears gathering there. "Because I know what forever looks like, and it's you. I don't care what I have to do to keep you. I don't care what it costs or what it takes."

There was a moment of silence, the kind that hummed with certainty.

"Marry me," Maya whispered.

Carina blinked, startled. But before she could respond, Maya's words tumbled out, rushed and unfiltered.

"I've been thinking about asking you, but I didn't get a ring yet or plan an engagement or figure out when the right moment would be, but I know I want to marry you. Whether it's today or in a year, that doesn't change. But if we marry now, you don't have to worry about leaving. I don't want it to be just about a green card, but it's better than you going, and we can still make it romantic, I swear we can, I'll..."

Carina silenced her rambling with a kiss. Slow, certain.

"Yes," she whispered against her lips.

Maya pulled back just enough to search her face. "Yes?"

"Yes," Carina repeated, firmer this time. "Yes, I'll marry you."

Maya laughed, a sound caught between relief and disbelief, before kissing her again, longer, deeper, like she could kiss the word into permanence.

When they finally broke apart, Carina's fingers toyed nervously with the edge of Maya's sleeve. Her voice was small, hesitant. "Can we still have a wedding? Something... romantic?"

Maya's smile spread immediately, wide and reassuring, that all consuming kind of smile that made Carina feel like the only person in the world. "Of course."

But Carina wasn't done. Once the dam of her fears cracked, the words tumbled out fast, uncertain, like she was afraid of asking for too much. "I mean, dresses? Can we still have dresses? And flowers, beautiful flowers, maybe sunflowers or lilies, or something bright. And rings. We should have rings. And food, oh, amore, good food, not just something small. Wine, there must be wine. And our friends, we should be surrounded by people we love, right? Not just for the papers, but something that feels real, something that feels like us."

She faltered, cheeks flushed, eyes flickering nervously to Maya. "Is that... too much to ask? In six weeks?"

Maya only shook her head, her thumb brushing across Carina's cheek as she gazed at her like she was already everything. "Yes to all of it. Dresses, flowers, rings, food, wine, friends, everything you want. If you can dream it, I'll make it happen."

Carina let out a shaky laugh, equal parts relief and disbelief. "You'd really do that? In six weeks?"

Maya leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her voice a vow. "I would do it tomorrow if it meant keeping you. But six weeks? That's more than enough time. I'll pull together something beautiful, something romantic, something perfect because there is no way on earth I'm letting you go. Not unless you want to, and you don't. So I'll do anything and everything to keep us together. Because you are my entire world, Carina. You're everything."

Carina closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the truth of it. Maybe it wasn't the way she'd imagined, maybe it wasn't some perfectly orchestrated proposal in the quiet of Bellamy's, or under the stars, or with a ring hidden between the pages of a book but it was real. It was raw. It was them.

And it was perfect.

Because Maya would move heaven and earth to keep her, and Carina would spend the rest of forever loving her for it.

Chapter Text

Epilogue - One page was dedicated to the birthday where Carina gave Maya a small envelope and inside it, the first ultrasound photo of Emily-Jane. Maya's voice, written beside it, read: I thought I had known love in its entirety, then I saw it flicker on a screen and realised I had only known the beginning.

The morning was soft from the very start, Maya woke to sunlight slipping through the curtains and the faint smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen where she assumed Carina had been making breakfast. Maya stayed in bed, stretching lazily, smiling every time she heard the clink of dishes and Carina's voice humming something gentle in Italian.

When Carina finally returned, she carried a tray of pancakes stacked neatly, with berries scattered across the plate like confetti, and a single candle tucked into the middle of a cake, flickering proudly.

"Buon compleanno, amore," Carina whispered, leaning down to kiss Maya's cheek before setting the tray on her lap.

Maya laughed softly, her chest already warm, her heart already full. She ate slowly, savoring every bite, every smile Carina threw her way. And then, once the pancakes were cleared, Carina slipped back off the bed, retrieving something from her nightstand.

Handing across the envelope, Maya opened it slowly. Carina's handwriting danced across the page, full of tenderness and little jokes, stories of the year behind them and promises for the year ahead. Maya read it twice, kissing Carina after each line, unable to stop herself.

But then Carina pulled out a second envelope. She hesitated, biting her lip, her eyes shining with that particular brand of nerves and joy that always made Maya's breath catch.

"This one isn't from me," Carina murmured, handing it over.

Maya frowned curiously. The envelope was smaller, the handwriting larger and uneven, like a child's attempt. It simply read: To Mommy.

Her throat closed. She opened it carefully, her hands trembling. Inside was a short, sweet message written in Carina's looping script but clearly meant to be another voice:

To Mommy. I can't wait to meet you and spend your next birthday with you. Love, Baby Nugget.

A small ultrasound photo slipped out from the fold, black and white and grainy, but to Maya, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Her vision blurred instantly. She stared down at the image, at the tiny shape flickering inside the grainy screen, her tears spilling unchecked. She had been there when the photo was taken, she had seen it already, she owned her own copy but holding it now, as a birthday card from their baby, from the little life growing inside Carina, it undid her completely.

Her mind spun, unable to catch hold of just one thought because they were all tumbling over each other at once. This is real. This is our life. Carina, my wife and the love of my life is carrying my baby. The words felt too big to even hold inside her, almost impossible to believe, and yet here it was, living and breathing in her hands as a grainy black and white image.

She had always imagined love as something to complete, something she had already reached the height of with Carina, but now she realised she'd only been standing at the edge of it. A part of her, an egg taken from her own body, was growing inside Carina, protected and nurtured by the woman who had taught her what love meant in the first place. It was overwhelming in its beauty, this collision of science and love, of their two lives woven so tightly together that a new one had begun. And she couldn't stop thinking, Is this really mine? Is this really ours?

Her heart felt like it was too big for her chest. She placed the card carefully on the nightstand and curled down into Carina's lap, pressing her cheek gently against the small swell of her stomach. Her hand smoothed over the fabric of Carina's nightshirt before lifting it and placing a kiss there.

"Hi, baby," Maya whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Thank you for my birthday card. I can't wait for you to be here for my next one too."

Carina's hand threaded gently into her hair, her thumb soothing over her temple, and Maya let out a shaky laugh, turning her face more fully into Carina's belly.

Carina's gaze softened as she looked down at Maya, her wife curled against her, whispering to a bump that barely even existed yet. It undid her, how Maya spoke to their baby with such tenderness, as if love alone could build the tiny heartbeat flickering inside her.

Carina's chest ached with something too full, too vast to name. She had spent so long believing family was something fragile, something that slipped through her fingers no matter how tightly she tried to hold on. And yet here, Maya was proof that love could root itself deep and grow into something new, something lasting.

She couldn't quite believe she had found someone who wanted to create a family with her, not out of obligation or tradition, but out of an overflowing love that was too much for just the two of them to hold. That love had spilled outward, shaping itself into another person for them to cherish, a child created by both of them in the purest way.

Carina let her palm rest gently over Maya's hair, then drifted lower until her fingers brushed her belly where their baby grew.

"Do you want cake too, baby?" Maya asked, soft but playful. "I think you do. I think you want lots of cake."

Carina rolled her eyes affectionately, "Maya..."

"Nope," Maya interrupted, sitting up with mock determination, wiping her eyes but still grinning through the tears. "Baby Nugget has spoken. Baby Nugget wants birthday cake."

Carina laughed, trying half-heartedly to protest, but within minutes Maya had cut a generous slice of cake from the tray, returning to perch cross-legged on the bed beside her. She held out a forkful to Carina, her eyes shining.

"For Baby Nugget," Maya teased.

Carina gave in, leaning forward to take the bite, her laughter muffled by frosting. She shook her head, amused and hopelessly in love. "I can't refuse you or Baby Nugget it seems."

Maya's smile softened as she watched her wife chew. "Good. Because the three of us are celebrating together from now on."

Carina swallowed, her throat tight with emotion, and pressed a kiss to Maya's lips, tasting sugar and tears and something sacred.

She realised in that moment, that home wasn't in Europe, it wasn't Italy, it wasn't even a place she could point to on a map. Home was here, in this moment. Home was Maya and their baby, her Maya and their nugget. No matter where life carried them, she would never be without home again.

Chapter Text

Epilogue- Maya worked part-time at Bellamy's alongside Jon, who, despite not being her father, somehow became Dad without anyone really noticing when. At first, he was the quiet shop owner who gave her space to grow. But somewhere between hot chocolates on rainy Sunday mornings and staying late to shelve new arrivals together, a bond had formed.

One afternoon, after he made a terrible pun, Maya had rolled her eyes and muttered, "Okay, Dad," with the type of sarcastic flair Carina would be proud of and from that moment on, it just stuck. He answered to it, proudly.

Jon brushed a napkin across the table, gathering up the trail of muffin crumbs someone had abandoned. "You know, without me, this place would just fall to pieces."

Maya froze mid-shelving, staring at him.

"Get it? Pieces? Like crumbs." He glanced at her, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"That is... genuinely awful." She set the book down with a thud, fighting a grin.

Jon grinned anyway, pleased with himself. "Don't pretend you don't love it."

She rolled her eyes, smirk tugging at her mouth despite her best effort. "Okay, Dad."

The words landed between them with more weight than her sarcasm intended. Jon froze for just a second, the corner of his smile softening into something gentler. Maya's breath caught, and she felt her own eyes flick to his face, uncertain, like she'd said too much.

But Jon only gave the faintest nod, so small it could have been nothing. Except she knew it wasn't, his silence wasn't discomfort, it was permission.

Maya ducked her head, cheeks warm, and reached for the next book. She thought of how long she'd hated that word, of how heavy it had always felt. It was a word she'd spent her whole life wishing she could cut out of her own story, but now it was lighter. It almost felt like it was hers to give, rather than something to endure. She hadn't just said it, she'd chosen it.

For Jon, the shift was almost dizzying. He thought of the rainy mornings when she'd slumped into Bellamy's, hair damp from the drizzle, and he'd wordlessly slid a hot chocolate across the counter before she even asked. He thought of the nights she'd stayed late shelving, her stubborn pride refusing to leave work unfinished, and the quiet way he'd slipped her an extra muffin to take home. He thought of her sarcasm, always sharp as a blade but softened by the hint of a grin and how, without realising it, he'd started looking forward to being the butt of her jokes.

He'd never wanted to be a father, he had always told himself he wasn't built for it. He was too solitary, too old, too fixed in his ways, but somehow, between hot chocolates and book stacks, she'd carved a place for herself in his life. And now she'd named him Dad, even if half-joking, something deep in him swelled so fast it almost ached.

After a while, Jon cleared his throat, nudging her elbow. "Come on, kiddo."

They moved to the counter together, the shelves neat, the stack now empty. He reached for her cocoa tin, whisking and pouring.

Maya leaned her elbows on the counter, watching. She traced idle patterns on the wood with her fingertip, her stomach tightening as her mind looped back over the words that had slipped out. Okay, Dad.

It had been sarcastic, a joke tossed like any other, but it sat heavier than she expected. A part of her wanted to apologise, to take it back before it lodged in a place it didn't belong.

Jon slid the steaming mug toward her, but he didn't step back right away. Instead, he caught her glance, his eyes warm and steady, as though he could hear the storm of thoughts tumbling inside her. He gave a small, knowing smile.

"I've been called a lot of things," he said, tone light, "but never Dad, that's a new one."

Maya exhaled softly, relief flickering through her chest knowing he wasn't mad. "Sorry," she murmured, picking up the mug but keeping her gaze on him. "It just... kinda slipped out."

Before she could retreat fully into embarrassment, Jon placed his hands gently over hers, steadying the mug between them. His palms were warm, grounding.

"I love it," he said simply. "The name, and how it's a choice, not an expectation. I didn't even know I wanted to be a dad until you said it, and if you never say it again, that's fine. But if you do..." His smile deepened, soft and certain. "I'll love it more every time."

Maya nodded, unable to form words, but she sat with it, she let it settle into the spaces she'd kept locked tight for so long.

She'd never had a dad in the traditional sense. A father, yes. A presence that had cast shadows over her choices, her worth, her very sense of self. But a dad? That had always been something she denied herself, it was safer to pretend she didn't need one.

And yet... Jon had been there. He'd supported her choice to leave work, to leave a safe and stable career and never questioning her need for space. He'd encouraged her relationship with Carina without judgment, grinning at the little details she shyly shared. He'd listened when she doubted herself about her latest venture into education, he seemed to offer quiet words that found her at the right time, the times where she was most afraid. He always sat with her, never rushed, never pushed.

It wasn't obligation, it wasn't even blood, but it was real. It was love, in the most patient and steady form, it was stitched into all the small moments that made her feel at home in herself again. In that moment, she knew the word hadn't been an accident, it had been instinct or intuitive, because Jon wasn't just like a dad, he was her dad in every sense of the word.

She put the mug down, her hands trembling slightly, and stepped around the counter. Jon looked up, startled for a heartbeat before she wrapped her arms around him, holding on as tightly as she could. Her voice cracked as she whispered into his shoulder, "You are my dad."

He smiled, resting one hand against the back of her head, steady and sure. "I know," he said softly. "And you're the daughter I didn't know I needed or wanted but I wouldn't change you for the world."

Maya squeezed her eyes shut, letting herself believe it, letting herself believe that for the first time in her life, the word dad didn't feel heavy, it felt safe.

Chapter Text

Epilogue- "They saw the kind of mother I always hoped to be, because of the woman who believed I could."

The room was dim, the air still vibrating with the echo of their daughter's first cries. Nurses moved quietly around them, voices low, but all Maya could hear was the thrum of her own heartbeat.

Maya's eyes never left her wife. Carina's skin was flushed, her hair damp and tangled, yet to Maya she had never looked more beautiful. Her hands cradled Carina's face, her thumbs brushing away sweat and tears alike, as though memorising every detail, burning it into her memory.

"Go see our daughter," Carina whispered, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

But Maya didn't move, she couldn't. Her gaze held fast to the woman who had carried their child across nine long months. "Bambina," she murmured, her voice breaking, but Maya shook her head. "I need another second, to remember this. To remember the final moment you were the single love of my life. Because when I see her... Carina, you won't ever be my only one again." Maya's voice cracked, filled with so much love.

Carina's chest tightened, the emotion knotting in her throat. She allowed Maya that pause, allowed her everything she needed because she understood that this moment was sacred. The final heartbeat before their love, already infinite, expanded beyond each other.

"I carried her for nine months," Carina said softly, her lips curving into the faintest smile despite her exhaustion. "It's your turn now."

Maya's breath caught but she nodded slowly, as if making peace with the shift, then forced her eyes away from Carina, letting them fall for the first time onto the tiny bundle waiting across the room.

Their daughter.

She was impossibly small, her face wrinkled and flushed, yet to Maya she was perfection. Her sweatshirt had been discarded long before Carina's final pushes, instinct preparing her for this moment. When the nurse laid the baby against her chest, skin to skin, Maya swore her whole world reshaped itself in an instant.

"Hi, baby girl," she whispered, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. "Hi, nugget."

The cries softened, then quieted, as though the little one had been waiting for that voice, recognising the safety of her mommy. Maya's arms tightened protectively, her lips pressing against soft skin. "I know, mama's tummy was so warm and comfy," she soothed, rocking gently, "but I promise, we're going to keep you just as safe here in the real world."

Carina never stopped watching, she had thought she would close her eyes, let sleep claim her after the storm of her labour. But she couldn't look away from the sight of Maya holding their daughter for the very first time, from the way love poured out of her wife, filling every inch of her heart.

Maya shifted carefully onto the bed, sliding into place beside Carina, angling their daughter so she was cradled between them. "Hi, mama," Maya whispered, lifting their daughter's tiny hand to wave, her eyes sparkling through the tears.

That action made Carina break, her tears came heavy and unstoppable, as if love hit her in two directions at once. Not only did she fall irrevocably in love with their daughter, but her love for Maya doubled in a single heartbeat. She tucked herself into Maya's side, she was spent and aching yet whole in a way she had never known. With trembling fingers, she reached for their daughter, laying her palm gently on her tiny stomach, needing the connection even if her strength had nothing left to give.

Maya looked down at them their daughter, her voice tender. "Only someone as perfect as you could create someone as perfect as her."

Carina's lips quirked faintly, exhaustion giving way to honesty. "I agree."

Maya blinked, startled. Carina rarely let words like that pass her lips. "You... agree?"

Carina turned her gaze up, her expression soft and unwavering. "She's you, amore. Your egg, your creation, I just gave her a space to grow. So yes, I agree, only someone as perfect as you could create someone as perfect as her."

Maya froze, her throat tight, her tears spilling faster, because in that moment, she saw herself differently. Not through the distorted mirror of old wounds, but through Carina's eyes and through their daughter's tiny, perfect reflection.

Carina had always wished Maya could see herself this way, and now, as their baby sighed softly between them, maybe Maya finally did.

Chapter Text

Neither of them had ever been particularly fond of Halloween.

Maya found it noisy and overdone, to her it was another excuse for people to drink too much and sugar coat everything, literally and figuratively. Carina, thought it was an odd holiday altogether, with fake cobwebs, skeletons, and "fun-sized" sweets that never seemed very fun.

They'd laughed about it once, early on in their relationship, when they were curled under a blanket at Bellamy's autumn fair. "We can skip that holiday forever," Carina had said, and Maya had kissed the top of her head, happily agreeing.

But this year was different, it started that morning at Emily's playgroup. Maya had managed to arrive on time, which was a small miracle in itself. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, keeping Emily from chewing on another rattle, when one of the other mums smiled and asked, "So, what's she dressing up as for Halloween tonight?"

Maya froze, blinking like a deer in headlights. "Oh, um..." she started, voice too bright, "we hadn't really... decided yet?"

The mum laughed kindly. "Better hurry, everything's selling out fast."

And that was it, it was just a passing comment but it had stuck.

On the walk home, Maya couldn't stop glancing down at the pram. Emily was kicking happily, babbling to her toy giraffe, completely oblivious to her mother's growing guilt.

They'd agreed they didn't care about Halloween. But looking at Emily's round cheeks and sparkling eyes, Maya suddenly cared a lot. Her little girl deserved something, a memory, a photo, a reason to smile when she looked back.

By noon, Maya was on a mission.

She started at the local supermarket, but everything was gone. The racks were empty, just a lone ghost bib hanging off the edge like it had survived a war.

Next was the craft shop, she eyed a bin of glitter pens and almost walked out again, but guilt was louder than reason. She scoured the shelves for anything even remotely costumey, a piece of black felt, a headband, maybe some fabric glue.

An older woman stocking shelves smiled knowingly. "Little one's costume?"

Maya sighed. "Trying to make one but everything's sold out."

"Well," the woman said cheerfully, "that's what moms are for, making something out of nothing."

Maya smiled politely but thought grimly, you haven't seen my craft skills.

Two hours and three shops later, she trudged home with a small bag of random supplies including a plain black baby T-shirt, a pair of leggings, a bit of soft felt, a glue stick, and an eyeliner pencil. Emily, blissfully unaware of her mother's meltdown, giggled the whole way home.

The living room became chaos. Emily sat in her playpen wearing the black tshirt and leggings watching as Maya worked on the coffee table, muttering to herself and occasionally blowing hair out of her face. She cut and glued and adjusted until she had some felt vaguely resembling cat ears on a headband.

"Okay," Maya said finally, sitting back on her heels. "This might actually... not be terrible."

When she slipped the headband onto Emily's soft curls, one ear flopped sideways immediately. Maya groaned but grabbed the glue stick and tried again.

Then she frowned, glancing at the scraps of felt left behind.

"Right," she murmured. "Cats have tails."

Ten minutes later, she'd engineered one, well sort of, she had plaited together bits of ribbon and fabric, pinning it to the back of Emily's leggings with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing bombs.

"Okay," Maya said finally, sitting back on her heels. "This might actually work."

Then came the whiskers. Maya knelt down with her eyeliner pencil, steadying Emily's wiggling chin. "Okay, hold still, little one," she whispered. "Let's try not to poke an eye out."

Emily giggled, reaching for the pencil, smearing a black line across her cheek.

"Perfect," Maya sighed. "Abstract art."

By the time she was done, Emily-Jane was a tiny, patchwork cat, she was mismatched, slightly crooked, but utterly adorable. A handmade little miracle.

Maya sat back, glue on her jeans, hair escaping her ponytail, and whispered, "You're the cutest disaster I've ever made."

Carina came home just after, still in her lab coat, hair pulled up messily. She called softly, "Amore? I'm home, how was..." and stopped mid sentence.

Her wife was crouched on the rug, surrounded by felt scraps and coffee cups, holding their daughter, who now sported a set of slightly uneven cat ears and the world's most crooked whiskers.

Maya looked up, caught. "Before you say anything, everything was sold out. I tried six stores."

Carina's lips parted into the kind of smile that could make the world stop spinning. "Maya..." she said softly, eyes full of warmth. "She's perfect."

"Perfect?" Maya laughed. "She looks like a Picasso painting of a cat."

"Then Picasso was a genius," Carina said, leaning down to kiss Maya's temple. "And so are you."

Maya blushed faintly, muttering, "She deserved something, I know we said we wouldn't do Halloween but I didn't want her to miss out."

Carina brushed her thumb against Maya's cheek. "You didn't just give her something, you gave her this, it's perfect."

She looked at Emily again, who was babbling proudly and tugging at her tail. "How can anyone not love Halloween when it looks this cute?"

So, against all odds, they decided to go trick or treating. They bundled Emily up in her costume, adding a tiny cardigan and a blanket for warmth, and stepped out into the crisp October evening.

The neighbourhood glowed with pumpkin lanterns and laughter. They only went to a handful of houses, neighbours that they knew reasonably well. Most people melted instantly at the sight of baby Emily in her handmade costume, even a teenager in a skeleton hoodie dropped half his candy into Emily's bag with a grin.

"She's stealing hearts," Maya whispered "Just like her mamma."Carina laughed, slipping her hand into Maya's.

They wandered along the street together, Emily perched in Carina's arms, occasionally babbling as they passed glowing pumpkins and cobweb covered hedges. Maya carried the little bag, which already rattled with wrapped sweets offered by amused neighbours who couldn't resist Emily's charm.

When they reached a particularly decked-out house, with giant inflatable ghosts, flashing lights, and a grinning skeleton band, Maya stopped. "Okay, we have to get a picture here."

Carina laughed, handing Emily the bag and setting her down on the path. The baby immediately plopped to the ground and started digging through her treats, fascinated by the crinkly wrappers instead of the decorations.

Maya crouched beside her, trying to coax her into looking at the camera. "Emmy, look at Mama! Smile, baby girl!"

Emily ignored her completely, holding up a sweet like a trophy. Carina sighed with a laugh, snapping the picture anyway. "Not quite the aesthetic we were going for, but at least she's smiling," Maya laughed.

"It looks perfect to me," Carina said, her voice soft and sure. As Maya was about to take another photo, a passing family paused, smiling at the sight of them. "Would you like one together?" the mother offered.

Carina's "yes" came instantly, before Maya could even answer. She passed her phone over, stepping close to Maya and looping an arm around her waist. Emily sat happily between them, her tail lopsided, her whiskers smudged.

"Ready?" the woman said, lifting the phone.

Maya looked at Carina, who was already looking at her, the streetlight catching in her brown eyes.

"Ready," Maya whispered.

The photo caught it all, Carina's soft smile, Maya's slightly messy hair, Emily's tiny grin between them, surrounded by twinkling orange lights.

As they walked home later, Carina kept glancing at the photo on her phone, her smile growing each time.

Maybe Halloween wasn't so bad when it looked this cute.