Allison’s POV
Rain makes everything worse.
My shoes were soaked. My hair stuck to my forehead like wet spaghetti. The sky looked like someone spilled black ink all over it, and the streetlights flickered like they were just done with life. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I forgot again. I always forget.
I walked past the bakery.
Didn’t look.
Didn’t slow down.
Didn’t even breathe properly.
I could feel it though, the warmth behind the window. Probably smelled like sugar and heaven. Probably he was there. Probably she was there too.
Ugh.
It had been three nights since that weird pasta dinner, and I hadn't gone back. Not once. Not even for a mini croissant. Which was a big deal.
Because I always go back.
But not this time.
Because my heart… it did that stupid thing again. That soft, squishy thing. The one where it gets jealous and scared and dumb all at once. And I hate it. I hate that I even care.
So instead, I walked home. Past the glowing sign. Past the place where the laugh I liked came from. Past the boy who smiled like morning.
When I got home, I took a shower so hot it made the mirror fog up. Then I sat on my floor with my wet hair dripping down my shirt and opened my notebook.
The one I never let go.
I flipped through the pages.
Old ones. New ones. Scribbles. Tea stains. Broken words. Beautiful lies.
And then I found it.
A page I wrote years ago. Folded in half. Hidden.
I opened it slowly.
"The girl was seven. She liked fairy tales, but only the sad ones. She believed in magic but didn’t believe it would ever pick her. Her mom said she smiled like summer. Her dad said she dreamed too much. Her doctor said she needed to sleep more. Her teacher said she needed to speak up. No one asked what she wanted to say."
I stopped reading.
My throat hurt.
Why did I write this? Oh. Right.
Because it was true.
Because that girl was me.
---
My mom left when I was eight. She said she was going to buy flour. Never came back. My dad never baked again. Not even toast.
I grew up on store-bought everything. Store-bought food. Store-bought feelings. Fake smiles. Fake peace.
But the words? The words were real.
So I started writing.
I wrote everything I wanted to say out loud but couldn’t. I wrote people I wished existed. Friends who stayed. Boys who said the right things. Nights that didn’t feel so lonely. And sometimes, I wrote letters I never sent.
Like the one I wrote to my mom.
"Dear Mom, I hope the flour was worth it. Love, the girl who waited by the window until her hope dried out."
I laughed. Kind of. It was sad, but it was funny too. I was always like that. A walking contradiction. Cry-laughing at the worst times.
---
Around 1AM, my phone buzzed.
Theo: "Are you okay?"
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Yes. No. I miss the bakery. I miss the baker boy. I hate mini croissants now.
I ended up typing: "Fine. Just busy."
He replied fast.
Theo: "You sure? You haven’t come by in the bookstore."
I stared at the message.
Then I turned my phone off.
---
The next day, I went to work with puffy eyes and no sleep. Theo offered me a donut and asked if I wanted to set the building on fire. I said yes. He gave me two donuts.
At lunch, he asked, "So, mystery bakery boy still haunting your brain?"
I nodded.
"Want me to egg his house?"
I laughed. "He didn’t do anything wrong."
"But he did smile at another girl."
"They were friends. Probably. Maybe. I dunno. She had shiny heels."
"Criminal."
"Exactly."
Theo nudged me. "Maybe he likes you."
"That’s the problem. What if he does? What if he doesn’t? What if he does then changes his mind?"
Theo leaned back in his chair. "Then you write about it. Like you always do. Turn him into a prince with bad timing or a bread wizard who disappears. Whatever works."
I smiled. Not because it fixed anything. But because someone understood.
---
That night, I went to the rooftop of my apartment with a blanket, a chocolate bar, and my notebook.
I stared at the stars. Wrote in the dark.
"The girl kissed a boy once. It didn’t fix her. But for a moment, she forgot she was broken."
I kept writing.
"She wanted love like lightning—unexpected, wild, loud. But she always got rain. Soft. Quiet. Cold."
"The boy made her laugh. That was the worst part. Because she knew she'd miss it."
---
Then I remembered something.
The first night I met Zeyon.
I was crying.
Not loudly. Not in a movie way. But quietly. Soft tears. Tired ones. My feet were aching from work. My phone had just died. And I walked into his bakery like a ghost.
He gave me a croissant. No charge.
"It’s okay to fall apart here," he said. "We got flour and tape."
I laughed so hard I hiccuped. That was the beginning.
---
Back in my room, I stared at the mini croissant he once packed for me. I had kept it in a bag, even if it was probably moldy by now. I couldn’t throw it away.
I pulled out my notebook again. Wrote one last thing before sleep.
"Maybe tomorrow I’ll be brave. Or maybe I’ll just miss you quietly again."
I didn’t know which one it would be.
But for now, I wrote.
Because stories don’t leave like people do.
And maybe one day, I’d write one where the girl stayed. Where the bakery boy chose her, even if she was sad and sarcastic and scared of everything.
Maybe.
Someday.