Jeevanstone Varghese
It was another Saturday evening.
As always, I slipped away from the world’s noise into the quiet arms of the public library. I wasn’t looking for love—just silence, stories, and something unnamed. My usual corner, the third table by the window beside the poetry section, welcomed me again.
That’s when she arrived.
Wearing oversized T- shirt and carrying a worn leather satchel, she moved like someone who belonged to another time. She smelled faintly of old books and sandalwood—something comforting, something I didn’t realize I’d been missing. Without a word, she sat across from me.
Virginia Woolf.
Rumi.
Emily Dickinson.
They lived on the table between us.
It’s our fourth Saturday now.
We never spoke much. But that day, our eyes met, and she offered a gentle smile before sinking back into her pages. When she stood to leave, she waved casually and said, “See you next Saturday.”
“Sure… bye,” I replied, pretending my heart wasn’t racing.I gathered my books for the week, headed toward the exit—then paused.
Something on the table.
A small, folded note, left behind.
“ You read Neruda like he’s speaking to you. That’s rare.”
I stood still. The words sat in my hands like something alive—like a bird unsure if it should fly or nest. My breath hitched. I hadn’t expected anything. And yet, somehow, I had hoped.
This Saturday, I left her a note of my own.
“ You smile when you read sad poems. That’s even rarer.”
I don’t know if she’ll reply.
I don’t even know her name.
But maybe next Saturday, she’ll sit down, unfold the paper, and smile that same quiet smile.
And maybe this time, I’ll say something more than just goodbye.
Because something is beginning here—something so gentle, it doesn’t need to shout.
It only needs a little space to bloom.
God, I think I’m falling.