"Sometimes love doesn’t come like lightning. It comes as a small light that slowly guides us home.
And that day, I knew I was coming home."
...
I wasn’t looking for anyone at that time. My life was just ordinary—stable, flat, without any sparks. Not bad, but not really good either. Like a river flowing calmly, not rushing but never drying up. There was a current, but it was never enough to make my heart beat faster. I worked, wrote, and occasionally traveled just to remind myself that I was still alive. There was nothing wrong with all of that, but nothing felt particularly meaningful either.
Until you came.
That day, the rain had just stopped. The sky still hung heavy with thick gray. The leaves along the street were still dripping with leftover rain, leaving behind the strangely calming scent of wet earth. The air was damp but cool, making people race to find shelter, to find a warmer space. And I chose the city library. For me, that place wasn’t just dusty bookshelves. It was like a waiting room between heavy days. A place where I could be silent without needing to explain anything to anyone.
And that’s where you appeared.
Your steps weren’t hurried, but you carried the impression of a heavy burden. Whether it was problems, memories, or thoughts you hadn’t yet shared with anyone. Your hair was still half-wet, clinging to the sides of your face. You looked around searchingly, then chose the table across from mine. Only one chair separated us, but strangely, that distance felt so close.
I glanced at you briefly. No particular intention. But for some reason, your presence caught my attention more than the book I had been reading. There was something in the way you sat, the way you opened the book you brought, that made me want to know more.
Then I saw the cover of your book. Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.
I almost smiled. Not because of the book itself, but because I had once fallen into that same abyss years ago. That book left me silent for two full days. It felt empty, hollow. And now, you were sitting in front of me, turning those same pages. Opening again the door to feelings that had once been so familiar in my life.
You read it slowly, unhurried. Every page you absorbed as if each word had its own weight. Your fingers traced the edges of the pages as if touching the skin of someone you loved—with such care. There was calm on your face, but also a wound that hadn’t fully healed. I didn’t know who you were, but you looked like someone too strong to appear fragile, and too fragile to be truly strong.
I don’t know how much time passed, but eventually you looked up. And our eyes met.
I should have immediately looked down, pretended to go back to my book, pretended to be busy. But I didn’t. And neither did you. We stared at each other. Awkwardness surrounded us, but it didn’t make me want to leave. Then you spoke.
"I like this part," you said, turning your book toward me and showing the open page. I was surprised—you actually spoke to me. But I leaned closer. There was something about you that made me want to draw near without thinking twice.
"Which quote?" I asked, continuing the conversation.
You read slowly, as if making sure every word reached me.
'Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of life.'
After that, you looked at me intently.
"Sometimes we forget that loss is part of life. Not something that must be fought against," you continued.
I fell silent. You didn’t know it, but that quote had once accompanied me when I lost someone. It had kept me from sinking. And now you said it so casually, as if unlocking something I had long kept locked away.
After that, our conversation flowed like water. About books, about rain, about black coffee and heartbreak days. Everything felt light on the lips, but I knew there were deeper layers between those words that weren’t finished yet. And I wanted to dig into all of it, to know you down to your roots.
In the days that followed, I started coming to that library more often. Sometimes you were there, sometimes not. But every time you appeared, it felt like the universe was giving me one extra good day.
We began leaving small things for each other. You gave me a list of books you thought I must read. I brought you bread from my favorite shop. We never rushed to talk about the past. But slowly, pieces of you started to be handed to me.
One afternoon, you told me about your mother. About her illness that you had to care for alone. About your father who had long left your small family. You didn’t cry while telling the story, but I could hear the cracks in every pause between your sentences. I listened to everything. Not because I had solutions, but because I wanted you to know—you weren’t alone.
And at that moment, I realized—I had fallen in love with you.
Not in a reckless way. Not with the thunderous feeling of a young person discovering love for the first time. But calmly, like water that knows where it must eventually flow. You weren’t just someone who made me want to stay. You made the world that had long been gray slowly begin to gain color.
I started imagining us in a long story. I wanted to be your home. Or at least, to be the place you return to when the world feels too heavy. One hug on a bad day. One place to be silent without needing to explain anything.
I didn’t know then that our time was limited.
What I knew was that I had found my universe. And for a moment, I believed the universe was on our side.