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It can’t be said that Gigi ever really liked reading books. There was a certain dread in the weight of them in her hands. A special kind of tired in how her eyes skimmed over the words, each line stretching into an eternity. Really, it would be a crime to say Gigi Murin was fine with long commitments such as these.
So maybe it’d come as a surprise—maybe even a betrayal—when she tells the world that she’s reading one right now. Not at home, not in a library, but in the back corner of a bookstore that moonlighted as a café.
Gigi could almost applaud the strategy. Beverages and books, hand in hand? Of course people came flooding in. You could hide in the smell of espresso, or pretend your latte made you smarter just by proximity to paperbacks.
But she wasn’t here for the book, or the coffee. It was something sillier. Something softer.
It had nothing to do with the bookstore, and everything to do with the voice next to her.
Despite her indifference toward reading, Gigi admired the way Cecilia enjoyed them. Admired wasn’t even the right word—she was charmed by it. Cecilia’s eyes lit up when she flipped a page, her voice rising and dipping when she read aloud, like she was carrying secrets only the characters could hear. When something ridiculous happened in the story, Cecilia pressed her palm against the table and giggled, her shoulders shaking, glancing at Gigi as if to say see, isn’t this fun?
To Gigi, it looked like some far-stretched domestic fluff, the kind of scene that was supposed to only happen inside—ironically enough—a book. Cecilia perched comfortably in the chair beside her, the book spread open on the table, their drinks gone lukewarm between them. It was so ordinary it hurt, in the way ordinary things could be sacred if you looked at them long enough.
Gigi hadn’t paid much attention to the plot. The words slid past her, untethered, while her mind raced with how beautiful the moment felt instead. Her chest hummed with that ache she could never quite put into language, and there it went—that yearning, rising all on its own, sharp and sweet like breathing in too much cold air.
She told herself she didn’t care for stories. But here she was, chasing one anyway.
Later, when Cecilia drifted off to browse, Gigi wandered into the little corner tucked away from the main aisles—the comics and manga. These didn’t feel as heavy. They didn’t overwhelm her with blocks of text. They weren’t asking for the kind of dedication she couldn’t give.
Here, the words were easier. They gave way to pictures when her focus faltered. They made room for her.
And for the first time, Gigi thought maybe she could learn how to read something all the way through—if only to have something to tell Cecilia next time she asked.
When Cecilia returned, a small stack of books in her arms, Gigi was still in the corner. She hadn’t picked anything up, but her hand hovered over a brightly drawn cover, the kind with colours loud enough to talk before the words ever had to.
“You’d like that one,” Cecilia said, slipping beside her. Her voice was amused, not pushy, and she tilted her head against Gigi’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I didn’t say I was getting it,” Gigi muttered, but she didn’t move away.
“I know,” Cecilia replied, almost sing-song. “But you paused at it. That counts.”
They stood like that a while, pressed lightly together in the aisle, the hum of the café fading to something far away. Gigi realised she didn’t mind the weight of books if Cecilia was the one carrying them. She didn’t mind the silence if Cecilia was the one filling it.
Back at the table, Cecilia set her finds down, flipping idly through one while her free hand found Gigi’s. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture—just fingers sliding into fingers, warm and steady. Gigi squeezed once, then again, like punctuation. Cecilia answered with a soft laugh, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple.
The ache in Gigi’s chest deepened, but it wasn’t painful. Not really. It was the kind of ache that told her she was alive in exactly the right place.
Cecilia paused when she caught Gigi staring at her. “What?” she asked, brows lifting.
“Nothing,” Gigi said, grinning despite herself.
“That’s not a nothing face. That’s a something face.”
“It’s my regular face,” Gigi countered.
“Uh-huh.” Cecilia narrowed her eyes, but she was fighting a smile. “You look like you’re plotting.”
“Maybe I am,” Gigi said. She squeezed Cecilia’s hand again, just to see the way her disbelief cracked into laughter.
“Plotting what, exactly?”
“Stealing all your habits,” Gigi replied with mock solemnity. “Even the annoying ones.”
Cecilia gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. “Annoying?”
“Terribly annoying. The reading out loud, the giggling at things that aren’t even funny—”
“They are funny!”
Gigi couldn’t stop herself from wheezing, the sound spilling out easier than she meant it to. And Cecilia, staring at her like she couldn’t believe a word of it, looked so bright, so alive, that Gigi forgot to breathe for a moment.
The silence stretched, soft and golden, until Gigi finally said, “See? This is what I mean. You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” Cecilia said, smug and gentle all at once, “but now it’s your habit too.”
And just like that, Gigi was smiling again, dumb and hopeless, because she knew Cecilia was right.