Allison's POV
I didn’t mean to leave the notebook.
Like, seriously. It was an accident. The worst kind. The kind that happens when your brain is running too fast and your heart is too heavy to keep up. I had it clutched to my chest when I walked in, I remember that. I remember seeing Zeyon behind the counter, his hair a little messy, flour on his face like war paint. He looked up and smiled like I was the only person who mattered in the world.
And then I left.
I left the notebook.
And I never came back.
I’ve thought about it a hundred times since then. I even went as far as standing outside the bakery twice. TWICE. Once at 8:04 PM. The second time at 8:09. Both times I panicked and left like some kind of coward in a hoodie.
Because what if he read it?
What if he didn’t?
What if he read the page about the stars and the line that said, "I think I’m starting to like the boy with the bread-stained hands"?
God, no. No, no, no.
I would absolutely combust.
Right now I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by old receipts, candy wrappers, and guilt. The walls are way too quiet. I keep scribbling in this temporary notebook like it can magically become the real one. It can’t.
Zeyon has it.
And knowing him… he probably kept it safe.
He seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t open something if he thought it was personal. Or maybe he did open it. Maybe he’s read every single sad page where I complain about my job, or write dumb poems, or doodle frogs in sweaters.
Ugh.
Someone knock me out.
Just as I’m about to bury myself under a blanket and never show my face again, my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: You left something.
I drop the phone.
Like physically. It hits my knee.
I stare at it for a full minute before picking it up again, hands shaking like I’m holding a live grenade.
I type slowly:
Me: who is this?
Unknown Number: Frog bread. You forgot your notebook.
Oh my god.
I literally scream into my hoodie.
Okay. Okay. Don’t panic.
Me: ...how did u get my number
Zeyon (because yes, it’s 10000% him): Your name was on the inside cover. I asked the girl from the bookshop next door. She knew your full name. I googled. Your Instagram had your contact. Sorry. Not a stalker.
Me: definitely sounds like a stalker
Zeyon: then I’m the friendly type. Like a golden retriever with cinnamon rolls.
Me: …so you read it?
Long pause.
Zeyon: Not all of it. Just enough to know you like frogs in sweaters.
DECEASE ME. RIGHT HERE.
Zeyon: Allison, come get your notebook. Or I’ll keep it hostage and use your poems as lyrics for my emo bakery band.
Me: lmao you don’t have a band
Zeyon: Not yet. But this is the origin story.
Okay. Okay okay okay.
I get up. I grab my hoodie. The soft one. The one that doesn’t judge me.
And I go.
---
The bell rings.
I feel like my entire soul exits my body the moment I step in. The smell hits me like a memory: sugar, cinnamon, warmth. My heart is punching my ribs.
He’s there.
Zeyon.
Wearing an apron. Hair fluffy. Face calm but eyes bright like maybe he’s been hoping I’d come.
He lifts a small paper bag. "Apple bread. On the house."
I walk to the counter slowly. "You bribing me with food now?"
"Only the best bribery," he says.
Silence sits between us like an awkward frog.
Then he says, quietly, "I missed you here."
My heart cracks like glass in summer.
"I—I didn’t mean to leave it. I was just… having a moment. And then it turned into a week."
"And then a week turned into me talking to frog cookies," he adds, a small laugh escaping.
I smile. It’s small, but it’s real.
He holds out the notebook.
"I didn’t read all of it. I wanted to. But it felt like reading your diary. I figured if you wanted me to know something, you’d tell me."
I take it, fingers brushing his.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Then, because I’m me, and I’m a disaster, I blurt, "I wrote about you in it."
He blinks. "I know."
My soul leaves my body again.
"I mean—like nice stuff. Not weird stuff. Okay maybe a little weird but—"
"Allison."
I shut up.
He grins. "Do you wanna sit in your usual spot? I made too much hot chocolate and I think the chair misses you."
I nod. My throat feels tight.
I sit. He brings me the drink. And when I open the notebook again, it doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
Not when he’s here.
Not when I’m back.
---
I went back to the bookstore.
The smell of dusty pages and bitter coffee from the old machine in the corner felt like home.
“Look who decided to show up,” grumbled Mr. Raul, the bookstore owner, who looked like he hadn’t smiled since the 80s.
“Hi to you too,” I muttered, taking off my coat.
“You okay?” he asked without looking at me. His way of being nice.
“I’ve been better.”
“You got that 'I lost my puppy' face.”
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t lose a puppy.”
“Mmhm,” he grunted.
I sat behind the counter, notebook on my lap. My fingers kept brushing the cover.
“You ever liked someone, Mr. Raul?” I asked without thinking.
He froze, blinked, then gave me a weird stare. “What are you writing, a romance novel?”
I laughed a little. “Maybe.”
He smirked. “Long time ago. She had purple hair and liked jazz.”
“Where is she now?”
“Married my cousin.”
I coughed. “Ouch.”
He chuckled. “Life’s funny like that.”
We were quiet after that. I think he understood. I didn’t need to explain anything. I didn’t need to say Zeyon kissed another girl, or I thought he was different, or he made me feel like maybe I could be someone.
I just needed someone to let me be quiet and broken for a while.
---
It was already late when the doorbell above the entrance jingled again.
Jessa.
I froze.
She walked in like a model stepping into the wrong place. Bright heels, shiny coat, hair that had no business being that perfect.
“Oh wow,” she said, fake-surprised. “I didn’t expect you here.”
I said nothing.
She looked around the dusty bookstore like it offended her eyes. “This is where you work?”
“Yeah.”
She snorted. “Explains a lot.”
I blinked. “Explains what?”
“You know. The... vibe.”
I raised a brow. “What vibe?”
“The... broken bird aesthetic. Very ‘tragic main character.’”
I smiled sweetly. “Thanks. And you’re giving ‘background character with too much perfume’ energy.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said, what are you doing here?” I leaned on the counter.
She crossed her arms. “Zeyon’s worried about you.”
I laughed. “Oh? Does he say that between kisses?”
She flinched, but only for a second.
“Whatever. He doesn’t owe you anything.”
I leaned closer. “Neither do you. So leave.”
“Touchy,” she muttered, then turned with a flick of her hair.
“Hey, Jess,” I called after her.
She paused.
“You sure you’re not catching feelings too?”
She didn’t reply.
The doorbell rang as she left.
---
Later that night, I sat alone on the floor of my room, lights off, holding my notebook like it was my heart itself.
I flipped open the pages.
There were scribbles. Thoughts. Dreams. Little moments I wrote when I saw Zeyon laugh. Doodles of cupcakes. Coffee cups. A sketch of him with flour on his nose.
Tears fell on the page.
“Stupid heart,” I whispered. “Why are you like this?”
But I already knew the answer.
Because somewhere between the smell of bread, dumb jokes, and sleepy conversations under the fairy lights...
I fell.
And I don’t know how to climb back up.