PRE-LOVED

(Before We Were Us)

Alone, quite alone, she walked down the wintry streets of her town, her breath forming misty puffs in the chilly Valentine's Day air. Couples strolled hand in hand, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of love songs playing from nearby restaurants and pubs. Everyone seems happy, sickeningly happy, as if all the badness in the world had gone, replaced by giant teddies and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.

But for her, the day only served as a reminder of her loneliness. She hated this day. The pressure to find someone. The pretence of being head over heels in love. The overt displays of affection. And all those stupid balloons that just sagged into sad saps after a week, reminding everyone that love never really lasted. Good grief! She was getting cynical. Perhaps that was what came from working in a florist shop on the most romantic day of the year. She made a mental note. Next year, she would take the day off and hide under her duvet until the whole charade was over and people started acting normal again.

She continued on her way, quickening her step, but then she passed a pair who were leaning up against a wall and kissing in a way that was surely illegal in public. Screwing up her face and sticking out her tongue in mild disgust, she decided that instead of heading home to put on her fluffy pyjamas, crack open a bottle of wine and tub of ice cream, then settle down to get another February 14th with Bridget Jones, she would take a little detour.

Before she knew it, she found that her feet were taking her in the familiar direction of the warmth of her favourite bookshop. Its weathered exterior exuded a welcoming charm, promising solace within its walls. With the sigh of one who has had a long and depressing day, she pushed open the creaky door and stepped into the cosy embrace of this little niche of comfort.

The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink, and the shelves groaned under the weight of countless volumes. Taking her time, she ran her fingers lovingly over the spines, each one a portal to another world, another life. For her, this place was more than just a book-nook; it was a sanctuary, a refuge from the harsh realities of the outside world. Here, she was not alone but surrounded by faithful friends. Elizabeth Bennet. Jo March. Jane Eyre. Anne Shirley. So many special women, ladies with real spunk, who had become very dear to her.

Wandering through to the second-hand section, or pre-loved, as she liked to call it, she suddenly had an idea. Perhaps she could not have the love of a good person today, but she could reconnect with an old flame, a true love, and have herself a romantic date with a man who was perhaps not real, but one who was tall, dark, handsome, not to forget sensitive and a sexy scowler.

Yes, that is what she would do.

Making her way around the aisles, she hunted for her companion, and there, at last, she saw it, her favourite book stood proudly on the shelf, its faded cover bearing the marks of countless readings, the coffee stain on the edge an endearing mark of familiarity. Her heart quickened at the sight, her fingers itching to hold it once more.

But as she reached out to claim it, another hand, a bigger, thicker, stronger hand, beat her to it, and brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her veins. Startled, she looked up to find herself face to face with a stranger—a man.

Oh! And a rather handsome man, at that.

He appeared stern at first, his lips fixed into a terse line, but perhaps that was all down to his surprise, for his features soon softened into the most irresistibly adorable smile. Her heart fluttered in her chest with a thrilling flurry of butterflies as she looked up at him, since he was much taller than her. His eyes, which were sharp yet soulful in their intense blue hue, met hers, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Their hands lingered for a while, suspended in the space between them, before the man withdrew with an apologetic smile.

'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice deep and tender. 'I didn't mean to startle you.'

She shook her head, a cute, coy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 'No, it's fine, honestly,' she replied, shyly tucking a stray hand of chestnut hair behind her ear, wishing she had bothered to brush her hair before leaving work and wasn't wearing her giant bobble hat. 'I was just... lost in thought.'

The man nodded, his gaze lingering on her face in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. 'It's a great book, isn't it? North and South, it has always held a special place in my heart.'

Her eyes widened like that of startled owls. He didn't exactly strike her as the type to cosy up with romance novels, but who was she to dispute the evidence? A literary kindred spirit had emerged before her. She couldn't help but feel drawn to him, utterly intrigued by her find amongst the dusty old bookshelves.

She nodded. 'Yes,' she agreed. 'It is wonderful. It has everything. Change. Inequality. Hope. Loss. Redemption. Growing up. There is something in it for everyone. It is so well written, that Gaskell was a genius, and it has this amazing way of staying relevant to every new generation of reader,' she went on, wishing she wasn't prattling on so. She bit her tongue. She always did this when she was nervous.

His face broke out into a broad smile. 'Aye,' it is all that,' he granted, and leaning in closer, he offered her a small wink, 'And don't forget, it's a crackin' love story, too.'

She blushed, turning a shade reminiscent of a ripe tomato at a summer fair, and erupted into laughter so raucous that she snorted like a gleeful piglet discovering truffles before scrambling to conceal her face in utter mortification. Yet, he remained unfazed, as if her antics were a delightful comedy show he'd stumbled upon. Instead of making a swift exit, he anchored himself firmly, as and leaned against the bookshelf, his arms crossed, his curiosity captured.

They shared a soft chuckle, the air between them lightening with every word exchanged. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, like a playlist of their favourite songs on shuffle. Characters and plots, love and heartache—they navigated the realms of storytelling, finding solace in the resonance of each other's thoughts. With each passing moment, the physical distance melted away until they stood close enough they touched toes, their hot breaths mingling, the two of them lost in the authenticity of their connection.

For the first time in ages, a glimmer of hope sparked within her, though she dared not entertain it too eagerly. The notion that someone like him could be interested in her seemed too good to be true. She was so plain, and he, well, he was so──

But then he said it.

'Would you like to get a coffee?' he asked, his voice tentative, as if he were nervous. 'I mean, if you don't have any plans...' he added.

'No,' she said abruptly, and his smile dropped into a frown. He suddenly felt like such a fool. Of course! A girl as sweet and clever, and pretty as she surely must have a date on Valentine's Day.

She noticed his disappointment. 'Oh, no!' she said, stammering to correct herself. 'I mean, I have no plans,' she laughed. 'I mean… I would love to go out with you.'

She blushed at her choice of words, surprised to find him blushing in return.

Her heart fluttered with an unexpected thrill. She hadn't anticipated such a turn of events, never imagined a chance encounter in a quaint bookshop would lead to anything beyond casual conversation. Yet, the sincerity and warmth in his gaze reassured her in ways she hadn't known she needed.

'Great,' he replied, his relief genuine, his eyes reflecting a shared understanding.

They ventured into the evening's cool embrace, the streets pulsating with the promise of endless possibilities. Side by side, they strolled in comfortable silence, their footsteps synchronised with the rhythm of their hearts. As they turned the corner and faded into the gathering dusk, she felt a soothing tranquillity enveloping her like a snug blanket on a wintry night, comforting and familiar.

It was right there, at that moment, in those very seconds, that she knew that she had found something precious—something worth holding onto. She had no idea where this would lead, but she knew one thing, she was not afraid to find out.

And it was only as they were entering a snug café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beckoning them inside, that she finally realised that she had forgotten to ask him a basic question. As they settled into a corner booth and removed their coats and scarves, she picked up her hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows and asked: 'By the way, what's your name?'

The man's eyebrows shot up. Yikes! Had he really not asked her name or given his? Oops, maybe he had. It seemed he had become so engrossed in their conversation, so swept up in the chemistry between them, that he had skipped the polite formalities. It was just that they felt as though they had been the very best of friends in another life, dancing through the mist of fact and fiction as two connected souls. It was strange, but he somehow felt like he had always known her, like he knew her inside and out, better than he knew himself. And, he suspected she felt the same way about him. It was almost...almost as if they had pre-loved each other through time. Perhaps he had simply forgotten to hit the rewind button and start at the beginning, the beginning of their story. Anyway, that could soon be fixed.

'John,' he replied, his name simple, but sturdy and steadfast. 'Yours?'

Glancing up, she smiled with the brightness of faith in the future. 'You'll never guess…'