Allison’s POV
The bookstore smelled like old pages and sadness.
Mostly the second one.
“Hey, Allison!” my co-worker Theo called from the front. “This lady wants a book about aggressive pigeons?”
I groaned from behind the counter. “It’s on aisle 4, next to ‘Weirdly Specific Birds’ and ‘Why Am I Still Working Here.’”
He laughed. The lady didn’t.
My feet hurt. My soul hurt. I wanted to go home, curl up in my blanket, and write sad poems that made no sense. But I didn’t. Because lately, I kept thinking about croissants. And that boy. Zeyon.
Stupid Zeyon with his warm bread and stupid soft eyes and the way he laughs like he forgot the world is cruel.
Ugh.
I pulled my notebook out of my bag during break and wrote:
“He smells like cinnamon and peace. I hate it here.”
Then I drew a cartoon of a bread roll punching me in the face.
It was 11:45 PM when my shift ended. I was exhausted. I had eye bags big enough to carry groceries. My manager waved a tired goodbye, and I left the store hugging my bag close.
But I didn’t go home.
Instead, I turned left at the corner and walked straight toward the glowing bakery sign that said “Zeyon’s.”
Okay, so maybe I was a little obsessed. Just a little. Like, a tiny, microscopic bit.
(It was bad.)
When I got there, the lights were on, as usual. But the moment I walked in—
“Hey, midnight girl,” he said from behind the counter.
I smiled before I could stop myself. “Hey, cinnamon boy.”
Leo popped his head out from the kitchen. “Wait, is this the pizza girl?”
“I brought pasta today,” I said proudly.
Leo clutched his heart. “You’re feeding us? Zeyon, marry her.”
Zeyon turned red. Like…bread-in-the-oven red.
I pulled out a thermos of creamy mushroom pasta I made an hour ago and placed it on the table. “It’s not poisoned.”
“Debatable,” Zeyon muttered, grinning as he sat across from me.
We ate. We joked. Leo joined and told a story about the time he got stuck in a fridge for five minutes. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
At one point, Zeyon looked at me like he wanted to say something serious, but instead he just offered me a mini croissant and said, “This one’s got chocolate.”
I stared at him. “Are you trying to propose right now?”
He choked on his drink. Leo screamed. I laughed till I cried.
After Leo left to “sleep on a sack of flour like a normal man,” it was just us. The bakery felt too quiet. Too soft.
“I like it here,” I admitted, my voice lower.
He looked at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s warm. And it doesn’t smell like dusty books or weird customers.”
He smiled. “You’re warm too.”
“Liar.”
“No, really. You just pretend you’re cold.”
I froze. How dare he see through me like that?
My notebook was still in my lap. I hugged it tighter.
He nodded toward it. “What’s in that thing, anyway?”
“Chaos,” I said. “And stories. Stuff I can’t say out loud.”
“Like what?”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I opened to a random page and tore it out, then handed it to him.
He read it.
It was a one-paragraph story about a girl who kept falling in love with 2AM places and warm bread, but she always left before sunrise because she was scared of being remembered.
When he finished, he looked up at me slowly.
“You wrote this?”
I nodded.
He folded the paper carefully. “I’ll keep it.”
“Why?”
“Because… maybe I’ll be the one place she doesn’t run from.”
My heart jumped into the moon.
But of course, that’s the moment the bell rang.
We both turned.
And in walked a girl with long wavy hair, wearing heels too high for midnight.
She looked like a fashion commercial.
She smiled at Zeyon. “Hey. Remember me?”
My heart? It sank.
Zeyon stood up, blinking like a deer. “Uh… Jessa?”
My brain screamed, WHO’S JESSA???
The girl walked up confidently. “Thought I’d drop by. Haven’t seen you since high school.”
Zeyon smiled nervously. “Yeah… wow. It’s been a while.”
I sat there, awkward and quiet, still holding my pasta spoon like a weapon.
She looked at me. “Oh. And… you are?”
“I’m Allison,” I said, trying to sound casual. “His—uh—friend.”
Jessa raised a brow. “Friend. Cute.”
I wanted to throw the spoon.
Zeyon looked at me and then at her. “We were just having pasta.”
She smiled. “Well, I’ll wait. We have catching up to do.”
She sat. In my spot.
I stood up, fake-smiling. “Actually, I was just leaving.”
Zeyon’s eyes widened. “Wait, you don’t have to—”
But I already grabbed my stuff.
“Thanks for the croissant,” I said softly.
And I walked out.
---
Back at home, 2:07 AM.
I wrote in my notebook:
“She was pretty. The kind of pretty that made you feel like an extra in your own movie.”
“I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t care. It’s stupid.”
“But I do.”
I closed the notebook.
I didn’t cry.
I just stared at the ceiling like it would answer something.