her compliment was a question
It started with a question about bookmarks. But that wasn’t the question I left with.
in the hush of the bookshop, I searched— for bookmarks hidden between shelves, words, and whispers.
uncertain, I approached her— soft voice, eyes alight, like someone who belongs to secrets more than shelves.
her gaze wandered, settling slowly on my hair. a color holding secrets even I couldn't fully grasp.
“purple,” she murmured gently, a compliment that felt like an invitation, her words hanging between us, a subtle tension shimmering in the air.
she led me quietly through aisles of pens, diaries, cups— small mysteries waiting to be discovered.
at the bookmarks, she hesitated, eyes lingering a breath too long, filled with silent wonder, as if my hair held stories she ached to unravel.
she turned away, but the silence remained— pulsing, charged, unresolved. I walked away, leaving behind a silence orchestrated by something greater. and for that— even if our paths never cross again— the feeling stays, like a half-read page I’ll never forget, and never fully understand.
like a frame from a film you don’t remember the title of— but you remember how it made you feel.
