Her name was Lina. I found out three weeks later, not from her, but from the owner of the bookstore.
"She comes every Wednesday," he said, wiping down the counter. "Never buys anything. Just stares at the poetry section."
I started going every Wednesday too. I'd pretend to browse. She'd pretend not to notice.
Eventually, she sat beside me on the little wooden bench in the back.
And we talked.
About everything.
Music, books, people who leave, and feelings we didn't know how to explain.
"Have you ever loved someone quietly?" she asked once.
"I think that's the only way I know how," I replied.
She looked at me, like she wanted to say something more.
But she didn't.
And neither did I.