You owned a bookshop. It was not very successful, nor very popular. But it was yours and you loved it. The majority of your trade was made up of students and academics, buying books for classes and research; you were better stocked than most of the university bookstores and that was something you prided yourself on. You were a hole in the wall kind of store, but you didn't mind. The days were slow, but it gave you time to read yourself, classics and poetry and studies and plays. Your store might have been quiet, but it was packed to the brim full of books, and you loved them.
Once upon a time, you'd been a literature student. You'd gone to a good college, not one that many people knew about but a good one all the same, and got your degree in English, with honors. Later, you did your Masters degree studying British literature. Books were your life and you didn't mind it.
You'd been convinced, back in those days, that you were going to write the next best American classic. A book for the ages. It was going to be great, at least, once you figured out what you were going to write about. There were so many topics, so many things. And your life had been so sheltered. You'd yet to see the world. So you waited.
In college, you'd written so many short stories and poems and prose for the school paper. They were good, you'd gotten a collection published by a small independent publisher, although it didn't sell particularly well. Older but perhaps not wiser, you tried your hand at writing again. You found that you suffered a great affliction. Writer's block. It happens to the best of people, you'd thought. But it kept you up at night, the fact that you couldn't write.
The pressure of it all was crippling.
So instead of becoming the great author you'd always dreamt of, you brought a bookshop and surrounded yourself with all the literature you could possibly want. If you couldn't write, then to live a life full of other great books would be enough.
You'd lived a sheltered life; a classic American life. You'd grown up in the suburbs, your father a doctor and your mother a housewife. You had a dog, a chocolate lab named Hershey. School came naturally to you, and your parents were proud of you. On Tuesdays you had piano lessons and on Sundays you went to church.
It was a nice life, a peaceful life, up until your parents died in a tragic car accident. A truck driver ran a red light, smashed right into their American made car, and killed them both instantly. You were nineteen, home for spring break. The police said they didn't feel a thing. You felt many things, grief and anger and loss.
Shyness had always been your defining trait growing up and while that meant you were not social butterfly, it didn't mean you were entirely friendless. You had a handful of good friends, good people. They were nice, but you never let anyone too close. You weren't sure why that was. Perhaps you were just built for a solitary life. Being alone was never a chore for you, in fact you liked it. It gave you time to think, to dream. You were a daydreamer.
You'd lost touch with most of your friends, when in a flight of fancy you bought a bookstore in D.C. with the settlement money from your parent's death. It was perhaps the only risky move you'd made in your very sedate life. That was okay though. You didn't mind that you knew nobody in D.C., or that nobody knew you. A bookstore, a real genuine bookstore belonged to you. Things were okay, would always be okay, because you had your books.
And for a while, you had him.
You'd led a remarkably quiet life, perhaps even lonely, until he walked through your door. It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon, unusual for the summer. He was tall and very thin, with dark hair and cheekbones to die for and eyes that you could get lost in. You thought he was the most beautiful man you'd ever seen. He bought a book, a used copy of The Narrative of John Smith. He looked sad, you thought. He bought a book and said thank you very much and then left.
Then he came back.
"Sorry, is this place new? Someone recommended it to me recently so I had to stop by and check the place out. I know most of the bookshops in the city, but I hadn't heard of this one." His voice was beautiful, you thought. You wanted to hear him talk forever.
"No, I've been here a few years. I'm not surprised you hadn't heard of us, this place is used pretty much exclusively by students and faculty at the universities." You told him, and hoped you weren't blushing.
"Right," He nodded, "Are you open often?"
You told him your hours and he promised he'd come back. You prayed that he wasn't just saying that, that he would actually return. You'd spoken to the man for all of five minutes, and suddenly you thought that he might be the most interesting person you'd ever met. A harmless crush on a customer, perhaps.
He returned. He returned multiple times. Each time he bought a different book. His time in your shop got longer each visit. Sometimes he would sit in the beat up chairs you had that no one ever used - other than him - and read. He'd always buy the book afterwards. You loved to watch his face as he read, how expressive it was. He devoured the books he chose fast, and one day you asked him about it. He awkwardly told you that he had been a predominantly accelerated child, a child genius, and that he'd always been good at reading. You told him you were jealous of his speed reading abilities and he laughed. His laugh was heavenly and you wished you could hear it more often. You wished you could see him more often.
He was always on your mind.
One afternoon, he came in with two take away coffee cups, one of them for you. It was the nicest thing someone had done for you in a long time.
"Thank you, you're very kind," you smiled at him, and he smiled softly in return. "I'm Y/N, by the way, I don't think I ever told you my name."
"Spencer," He responded quietly. "My name's Spencer."
He'd guessed your coffee order perfectly; you asked him about that. He chuckled and told you that he was just good at reading people. You hope he couldn't read the fact that you had the largest crush on him.
Another day, he came in with croissants from a local bakery. You eat together and he tells you that your shop is one of the most peaceful places he'd ever known.
You thought Spencer was perfect.
The small talk you would make with him turned into conversations over time. You noticed that he would never talk about himself. It was as if the mysterious Spencer didn't exist outside of your store. He would ask you about yourself, and you would tell him. You didn't think you'd ever be able to say no to him. You told him of white picket fences and piano recitals. Of how lonely you'd been as a child and how your parents had died. He'd seemed wistful as you spoke about how perfectly average your childhood had been, and sympathetic when you mentioned the passing of your parents.
You wondered what his childhood was like, but you never asked.
You talked about great things. Literature, music, art, the world. You argued about who was the better author, composer, artist. He told you about ancient history, facts you could never possibly remember, and you told him obscure facts about regency Britain. He was so smart and you could never possibly keep up, but you tried. You hoped he appreciated that about you. Spencer was far smarter than you would ever be, than anyone you'd ever known could hope to be.
Dreams and secrets, hopes and fears were all topics of conversation. Spencer told you that he'd wanted to travel the world but had never been able to, you told him that you'd planned to be an author until you'd realised your crippling fear of writing.
You wondered if your tentative friendship with him would ever be more than just coffee and conversation.
One day, you make the mistake of asking what he does. He seemed to keep odd hours, showing up at your store days in a row and then not at all for maybe a week. You wondered if he travelled for work.
"I don't want to talk about that, Y/N." Spencer told you authoritatively.
"Why? What is this if not friendship?" You asked him, confused at his sudden change in mood.
"You know what I love about this friendship? That you know nothing about me. I… Too many people know too much about me, and I'm sick of it. I just want a friend, you, who doesn't want or need to know the ins and outs of my life." He sounded mad and you so very much did not want him to be mad at you.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know." You looked up at him and hoped he'd forgive you. You needed him to forgive you.
He did, but Spencer also made you promise to not ask about his personal life again. You agreed. Maybe you didn't know anything about him, but what you did know is that you were falling in love with him.
Spencer kept coming by. You were thankful that your questioning hadn't ruined the friendship you'd built. You still wonder about him and his ever so mysterious life, but you don't ask. He doesn't tell.
One day, you found yourselves arguing about the merits of Romance poets. You were a fan of Keats and Yeats, he found them too optimistic about love. You jokingly called him bitter, and he didn't disagree.
"But don't you find the romance of it beautiful? Even if it does end badly or in sadness, the beauty of love is still ever present, and that's what's so beautiful about it!" You exclaimed, passionate about the love you held for romantic poetry. You might not have been loved yet, but that didn't stop you from falling in love with love poems.
Spencer stared at you for a moment. You asked him why. He called you beautiful, and your breath stopped. You told him he has the greatest mind you'd ever seen. The two of you stand in silence for a moment, and then he kissed you.
Kissing Spencer was the best thing you'd experienced in your twenty eight years of life. There was nothing better.
You knew it was love. That you loved him more than anything. This was it for you, your great love, your love to last the ages. Spencer was yours.
He showed up one Saturday, a very quiet Saturday, and demanded you closed the store. You laughed and asked him why you'd do such a thing.
"I'm taking you on a date. Hurry up and close so we can get going!" He practically ordered you with a grin.
You closed up shop for the day and ran down the streets your hand in his. Wherever you were going, it didn't matter. You were going with him.
The date ended up taking place in an art gallery. You strolled around the exhibits and he whispered in your ear information about each and every painting of interest. He held your hand, slung his arm around your shoulders. He kissed you on the cheek, on your forehead.
Every painting, every work of art, you saw with a new pair of eyes when looking at it with Spencer. He told you his favourite artist, showed you their work, told you everything you could ever wish to know about them. You showed him yours and he told you all the obscure facts you could ever want to know.
You found yourself in front of the most beautiful landscape in an empty room. He told you the artist, the year, the medium. You tell him that it might be the most beautiful thing you'd seen outside of him.
He kissed you in front of the landscape, and you realised that you were irrevocably in love with Spencer.
He took you places almost every Saturday after that. He showed up every Saturday, closed up shop for you, and whisked you off on mysterious dates that he planned and you never knew anything about. It was so romantic, you thought. You were so in love.
You went to the planetarium, the aquarium, the zoo, the museums. You stargazed and had picnics in the park. You felt as if he was showing you the world, even though the two of you never left D.C., you felt as if you were finally coming out of your tiny little world of books and literature. And maybe, even though you stayed in the city you'd ran away to but never explored, maybe he was showing you the world
Everything was so romantic. He was so romantic. You watched the stars together and asked him if he believed in fate.
"Sometimes. I think us meeting was a kind of fated experience. There's never a bad moment spent with you, and that's what I love about you." He murmured into your hair. Love. He'd said love.
You were like a teenager, nauseatingly in love. You kissed him in the aquarium in a tunnel of fish, and held his hand walking through the zoo. He held you during your star gazing sessions, and kissed your forehead in the museums.
You were so happy. It didn't even matter that you practically knew nothing about Spencer, that on paper he was practically a stranger. You didn't even know his last name. It didn't matter. You were in love.
You take him home one night, to your tiny little apartment that was far too small for all of the books you kept there. He told you he loved it. You listened to classical music and made him dinner.
"Dance with me." He asked of you, and how could you refuse him?
You slow danced to Tchaikovsky and Chopin and Debussy, and you thought the night was perfect.
"You know, I care for you more than anybody in the world. You know you mean the world to me, don't you?" He looked so beautiful as he told you everything you'd ever want to hear from him. You were lost in his eyes.
He looked at you with such a caring expression, and you were ruined.
You make love that night; it was perfect and wonderful and everything you'd ever hoped sex with Spencer would be. But you woke up alone, left only with a note telling you he'd been called away for work.
He didn't return for a week. You'd wondered if that note was his way of breaking up with you. If so, it was incredibly harsh; you didn't even have his number, didn't even have his full name. You had no way to contact him, and you felt increasingly alone.
Then he returned, and colour returned to your world again. You forgive him instantly, when he apologises for leaving so abruptly. He took you to the park and you watched the lake and ate ice cream together. He told you he regretted leaving so abruptly and that it was good for him too.
You sat and watched the sunset. You've seen so many sunsets, but none are as beautiful as the sunsets you share with him. You tell him that.
"You say the most poetic things sometimes. Perhaps you should write that book." Spencer observed, and you wondered if your heart could actually burst from happiness.
"I think I couldn't write before because I hadn't really experienced anything. I have now. I've experienced love."
On the year anniversary of your meeting, Spencer came into your bookstore and bought a book. You laughed, it had been so long since he'd done that. He told you it had been one of the better years of his life, the year he'd spent with you. You tell him you didn't think you knew true happiness until you met him.
Things changed not long after that.
He looked tired, you would observe. You wondered if something was happening at work, in the other sides of his life that he didn't share with you. You wondered, but you didn't ask. He showed up less. You wondered if you were losing him. He still took you on dates, still took you to museums and galleries and parks, but it wasn't the same.
Suddenly, what feels like out of nowhere, he stopped showing up completely. You didn't understand. Things had been going so well. You'd just celebrated an anniversary and he'd been so happy about your relationship. You'd thought he'd loved you.
Devastation takes over when you realised it was permanent. That he wouldn't ever be returning. You close the shop for a week. You can barely look at your books, the books you'd loved so much before. Everything reminded you of him.
Spencer was meant to be your great love, the one that would last a lifetime. He was meant to be the love of your life, the man you would write great poetry about. And he was gone, just like that.
Did you really not see it coming? The fact that you knew nothing about this man and he knew everything about you? You wonder if you could look him up, but Spencer is a common name and you have nothing to connect that with.
Despite the pain, you miss him desperately.
He doesn't come back. Not ever. You waited a year, wondering if he'd show up again. Perhaps it was a really long work trip. He doesn't come back. It hurt so badly, you thought someone had ripped your heart out of your chest.
You realise that he changed you into a completely different person. You'd built a life around him. He was gone. Spencer had left a permanent mark on your life and then just left you behind.
Going back to the places he'd taken you hurt, but you had to try. A small part of you hoped that you'd run into him, but you never did. You'd known that you wouldn't, but you had to have hope. What else did you have?
Nothing was the same. Things weren't the same. You didn't know how to live without him. He'd ruined you, completely.
One day, a man walked into your bookstore. He was beautiful, but he wasn't Spencer. The man was tall, but blonde, with bright eyes and a wide smile. He thought you were beautiful too.
He asked you out, you said no. He came back the next day, bought another book, and asked you out again. You laughed, and told him you were still healing a broken heart.
He kept coming back. Every day he came back, made small talk, brought a book. He was nice. He'd introduced himself as Dan, and you thought that he reminded you of Spencer, somewhat. You clung to that like a lifeline.
After another two months, you finally agreed to go out with him. He took you to dinner and then the park, the one you and Spencer frequented so often. It hurt, but you pushed through. Dan was nice. Dan told you about his life and his job as a college professor. Dan took you to his apartment. Dan gave you his number. Dan loved you.
You tried so hard, so hard, but your feelings for him couldn't possibly compare to what you'd felt for Spencer. But you realised that Dan was probably it for you. Spencer wasn't coming back. You wouldn't get another chance at love. And so you stayed with Dan.
When he proposed, you said yes. You wished he was Spencer.
Later, the two of you buy a house, you have children. You try to love him, but you can't get over your first love, your great love. You can't tell if Dan realises that your love for him is a pale comparison to how he feels, that you're in love with a ghost of a man you never truly knew. It doesn't matter. The two of you are married, and the two of you are somewhat happy.
Finally, you write that book, the one Spencer had told you to write. You finally had learnt the ways of the world. Of love and of loss. You write and you write and you finish your masterpiece. It's a great book. A best seller, even. Critics laud it as the next best American classic. You finally did it, achieved your lifelong dream. If only Spencer was there to see it.
You dedicate the book to the man in the bookstore who showed you the world. Dan thinks it's about him. It's not.
You've never loved so deeply as with Spencer, and you doubt you'll ever love like that again.