Beloved Imposter

It was just another ordinary spring day.

Plum blossom trees rustled softly in the breeze, greeting pedestrians with gentle showers of pretty petals and adorning the sidewalk in layers of pink and white. A sense of lightness fluttered in the air like butterflies, as contagious as the children's laughter from the park nearby. Around the corner of a red stone building, one store had a signage depicting an open book and a coffee cup. The words "One More Chapter" flowed across it in cursive, reminiscent of whorls of smoke rising from the cup.

A windchime hung over the book café's butter yellow door, welcoming patrons with merry tinkling. Once they stepped inside the threshold, they would find themselves emerged in a whole new dimension, one that wrapped them in a comfortable embrace and made them unconsciously shed their worries like the coats hanging on the rack.

Near the front was a spotless counter where friendly baristas buzzed around, methodically making beverages, shouting out orders, or working the till. The machineries' constant whirring blended into the ambient music playing near the left side of the store, where customers of all walks of life were seated at small tables or on colourful beanbags.

There, seniors savoured the view outside with a steamy drink in hand, passing by time with slow sips; middle-aged men and women allowed themselves to forget the tedium of work and enjoy their weekend with a good book; headphone-wearing college kids bagged the window seats which enabled them to people watch whenever they looked up from their laptops; highschoolers pored over reference books with their friends, heads bowed while containing fits of giggles that indicated they weren't being as studious as they looked.

But none of these were Iris Tate's favourite parts of One More Chapter. After a year part-timing here, she'd found solace between the secluded bookshelves behind the seating area, often voluntarily taking on the unrelieved task of reorganising books before or after what would always be a busy day. And if any adrift customer happened to roam this section while she was on duty, they would hear the faint tinkling of charm bracelets and feathery footsteps before receiving a friendly recommendation to pull them out of their reading slump.

The tall shelves filled with endless entertainment and words that would never judge her.

The fragrance of newly made coffee wafting by.

Caressing the books as she made her way down row after row alphabetically, sometimes stopping to flip through well-loved pages.

It was all so familiar and relaxing.

Iris bent down, slipping another misplaced volume from the shelf—a gothic horror nestling betwixt two historical romances—and stopped in her tracks.

In the space which should have been occupied by the spine of another book, a pair of blue eyes stared back at her, dilating in surprise.

A guy behind the opposite shelf happened to remove a book in the same spot as her at the same time. And now they were both hunched over. Stuck in eye contact.

Wincing in awkwardness, Iris quickly straightened and continued her duty. Along the way, she repositioned several more books without incident until...

Those blue eyes again.

This time Iris was pretty sure the adjacent shelf contained smut novels.

'Why is he picking those books?!'

Someone once said: The first time is an accident, the second time is a coincidence, and the third time is a scheme. 

Well, Iris hoped she wouldn't see the owner of those eyes the third time, otherwise this would be straight up creepy.

Her next stop was rearranging a series which had been entirely relocated by some scatter-brained customer. Iris took out all six hardcovers, stacking them on a wheeling cart before looking up—and into a pair of familiar blue eyes.

This time, its owner had grabbed three books, which made a gap wide enough for her to see his face and vice versa. He had a conventionally attractive face, though, one that could belong in a magazine somewhere—but that was beside the point.

For some reason, Iris felt obligated to say something, and apparently so did Mr. Not-Coincidence.

"We have to—"

"This is be—"

They froze simultaneously, electrocuted by this unexpected rapport.

"After you," he said, raising a brow.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Iris mumbled, flustered.

"What a coincidence," he chuckled. "I was going to say this is becoming a cliché."

"I meant what I said," she insisted. "Are the smut books not enough?"

"Pardon?" 

"Shelf E-3. The R-18 romance section."

"Oh, that." He laughed like she had spoken a joke. "Someone put an autobiography there," he explained. "I just rescued a respectable patriot's face from a bunch of shirtless cowboys. And aliens. I didn't know interstellar kink was thing before today."

He looked horrified, and the image was too vivid. Against her will, Iris snorted.

Catching herself, she cleared her throat and started to walk away. "Thanks, but rearranging the shelves is my job. You don't have to bother yourself with it."

"It's no bother." His voice drifted from behind, his footsteps keeping pace with hers. "I like putting stuff in order."

Iris stopped when she saw another mislaid novel and slotted it into a space two shelves below. When she straightened, she saw him peeking at her through the shelves again.

"Now you're just doing this on purpose," she grumbled, turning away.

"I won't deny it," he replied. The confident lilt in his voice made her heart flutter.

Iris hastened her stride as if it could distance herself from that strange feeling.

Step. Step. Step. Step. 

The long shelves came to an end. Suddenly, they were both face to face, and Iris found herself looking up at him.

"You know..." he started.

Outside the shadows cast by towering shelves, his eyes weren't merely blue—they were a watercolour palette of sea glass green, crystal blue, and midnight rings around his pupils. Sandy blonde lashes framed them, a picture of a seaside she had never experienced before.

All reasonable thought and smart quips left her mind, blanketing it in silence as white as the foam of lapping waves.

"...Maybe clichés are popular for a reason." 

He shot her a smile, a dimple popping at the corner of his lips.

"I'm Skyler." He offered her his hand.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. 

Somewhere within her chest, Iris heard the sound of locks unlocking, chains unravelling, and resolve crumbling. Some indescribable feeling took root in the cracks of her walls, pushing through, growing and growing, breaking some silly vow she'd made since the last time she indulged herself in this illusionary feeling.

"What's your name?"

But maybe it wasn't an illusion. Maybe he was feeling it, too.

"Iris," she breathed.

Somehow, her hand was already in his. There were calluses on his fingers, but his grip was warm and firm.

He whispered her name softly, like it was a gift wrapped in a silk ribbon. His smile brightened.

"Nice to meet you, Iris."

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist as their palms separated, but something lingered.

Was it in that moment?

On that not-so-ordinary spring day, between rows of birch shelves, amongst the pages of countless love stories preserved though time...

Sunlight spilled though the windows: Flecks of gold shimmering in his hair and decorating his jewel-like eyes.

They were windows to a calm ocean during sunset; a promise for steady steps hand-in-hand down uncharted paths; a glittering waterfall inviting her to fall for them...

Whatever her uncontrollable heart was feeling now...

It made her want to venture into the sea, even if she couldn't swim.

To set off on a long journey, even if there was no destination in mind.

To throw herself off a ledge, even if she feared falling. 

It was too risky, too fantastical, too irrational.

But...

"Nice to meet you... Skyler."

No one ever said emotions were rational, anyway.