Let me just say this upfront: I wasn’t looking for love.
Love is messy, unpredictable, and has a bad habit of showing up when you least expect it — or want it. For someone like me, who thrives on control and predictability, it felt more like an intrusion than a gift.
But then there was Meera.
⸻
We met at the Barnes & Noble in Mosaic.
I was lost somewhere between the shelves of Sapiens and The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F when I noticed her in the Philosophy section — tilting her head at the spines like she was choosing which truth to believe in.
She wasn’t striking in the conventional sense — just... still.
A plain sweater, hair tied back, no effort to impress.
And yet, she had that rare kind of quiet that made you stop. The kind that said: I’m not here to be seen.
I must’ve stared too long. She looked up, eyes sharp.
“Do I look like a public exhibit?”
“I wasn’t—maybe I was,” I said, fumbling.
Her mouth twitched — almost a smile. Then she turned back to the books, and I stood there, awkward and exposed, realizing I’d forgotten how to talk to people.
⸻
We crossed paths again. Then again.
Once in the café line, another time in the parking lot. Always brief. Always awkward.
By the third time, she laughed when I called self-help books “pep talks in paperback.”
That evening, we found ourselves in the same aisle again. She steadied me when I bumped into her.
“Careful,” she said, eyes glinting. “You’re becoming a hazard in this section.”
“There’s a bar down the street,” she added. “Want to join me? Unless you’re only loyal to coffee.”
I hesitated for half a breath — then nodded.
⸻
The bar was dim and half-empty, smelling of wood and old conversations.
She ordered a gin and tonic. I went with whiskey. It felt like a small act of defiance — of letting someone in.
“So,” she said, “do you haunt bookstores often, or is this just part of your research on introverts?”
“Mostly haunt,” I said. “People complicate things.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s convenient. Books don’t argue back, right?”
“At least they don’t pretend,” I said.
She smiled — slow, deliberate. “You say that like people aren’t worth the risk.”
For a second, I had no answer.
Then she leaned forward. “What do you look for in someone?”
“I don’t want anyone to fix me,” I said quietly. “Just someone honest. That’s enough.”
Her smile softened. “Good. Because I’m unfinished. And I don’t do lies.”
⸻
Weeks passed. We met again. Always by chance, or maybe not.
One night, she walked into the bar wearing a navy blouse, sleeves rolled just enough to show slim wrists. Her hair was loose now — dark waves catching the light like memory itself.
“You’re early again,” she said.
“You’re worth waiting for.”
She tilted her head, amused. Her phone buzzed — a man’s name flashed on the screen. She silenced it quickly.
“Ex,” she said simply. “He doesn’t understand boundaries.”
I nodded, pretending not to care.
But I did.
Later, when our hands brushed reaching for the salt, neither of us pulled away.
⸻
After that, there was rhythm.
Books on Tuesdays. Bars on Fridays. Long walks where nothing mattered and everything did.
She’d laugh mid-sentence, toss her hair, then look at me like she was seeing through the noise. For someone who claimed to hate risk, I found myself taking one every time I showed up.
One evening, halfway through a story about her daughter’s science project, she stopped mid-laugh.
“Come to dinner at my place,” she said. “Maya’s been asking about you.”
Maya.
Her daughter. The word landed differently.
This was no longer casual.
⸻
Her home was warm — books stacked on every surface, a faint smell of jasmine in the air.
Maya, eleven, sharp-eyed, curious, took one look at me and said, “Are you my mom’s boyfriend?”
I nearly choked. Meera groaned. “Maya, no.”
But the girl only grinned. “You make her laugh more. She doesn’t laugh like that when it’s just me.”
The honesty of children — unfiltered, merciless.
After dinner, while Maya washed dishes, Meera leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
“She likes you,” she said quietly.
“I’m starting to like her too.”
“That’s dangerous,” she said, half-smiling. “We’re a package deal.”
“I know.”
And I did.
⸻
Later that night, as she cleared plates, I stood by the window, watching city lights blur into patterns. For years, solitude had been my armor. Now, standing there, I wasn’t sure I wanted it anymore.
She walked up, wine glass in hand, her voice soft.
“I’m not scared of your scars,” she said. “I’ve got mine too. Maybe we can help each other heal.”
“You deserve someone whole,” I whispered.
She held my gaze, eyes steady.
“I want to marry you.”
The words escaped her — unplanned, raw, real.
She laughed at herself, shook her head. “Did I really just say that?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I heard every word.”
⸻
She took my hand, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You deserve someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t walk away while you piece yourself back together.”
The world stilled.
Then I kissed her — not tentative, not unsure, just present.
The city disappeared beneath us.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t thinking of what could go wrong.
Only of what already felt right.
⸻
I wasn’t looking for love.
But love found me anyway — between bookshelves and barstools, laughter and fear, silence and words we didn’t mean to say.
Maybe that’s how it always happens.
Not with certainty.
But with someone who simply stays.