The moment Elijah left my apartment, every buried insecurity came rushing back. It had been a long time since I’d felt so ugly… so fat… so completely unworthy of someone like him. Or anyone, for that matter.
Sleep didn’t come easy. And when it finally did, it betrayed me.
What started as a semi-erotic dream, Elijah and I, tangled in the sheets, wrapped in passion, twisted into a full-blown nightmare.
Right in the middle of everything, my ex-husband appeared with my mother.
Both of them telling me what I already feared deep down: that I wasn’t enough. That I was disgusting. That a man like Elijah, so stunning, so kind, so everything, shouldn’t even look at me, let alone touch me or even be my friend.
That I’ll die alone. That I couldn’t even keep a man almost twenty years older than me, that no man would ever want to touch me again. It cost me more than two years of therapy and a divorce I had asked for to stop that belief from resurfacing… and yet, here it is.
In the dream, Elijah climbed off me, his face twisted in disgust. He got dressed, turned to my mother and my ex with a smirk, and walked out laughing with them, like I’d been nothing more than a joke.
I woke up drenched in sweat, tears on my face, and the kind of nausea that comes from shame and heartbreak tangled together.
I threw up.
There was no going back to sleep after that. So I dragged myself into the shower, letting the hot water scald my skin until I felt human again, or at least something similar. Then I made myself a black tea, and dry toast. No coffee. My stomach couldn’t handle it.
Once I felt somewhat steady, I got dressed and headed to the shop.
Today was the big presentation. Hopefully, work would be enough to distract me, from the lingering touch of Elijah’s hands… and the cruel whispers of my subconscious that still echoed along my mother’s voice.
By the time I reach Books & Beans, the street is already humming with quiet morning life, dog walkers, a cyclist or two, people enjoying the morning sun, just walking, living. It’scomforting in its normalcy. Nothing like the chaos brewing in my chest.
I unlock the front door, and step inside. The familiar smell of fresh brewed coffee, books, and a hint of cinnamon still clings to the air. It's a smell I’ve come to love, the scent of my dream slowly becoming a reality.
Mia's already there, just finished setting up the mini muffins and stack of bookmarks next to the register with her usual caffeinated energy and bright red lipstick.
“You’re early,” I say, forcing a smile that I hope reads as casual.
She glances up, flashing me her signature grin.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Someone has to make this place look cute before people come storming in here.”
I chuckle softly. “You’re right. I’m lucky to have you.”
“Yes, you are,” she says, then narrows her eyes at me as she takes in my face. “You look tired. Everything okay?”
“I didn’t sleep well.” It’s the truth. Just not the whole truth.
Mia studies me for a beat longer, probably debating whether to push, but thankfully, she lets it go.
“Big day today. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I move behind the counter, placing my bag down and taking a deep breath.
We have everything ready when the first few people trickle in, local readers, curious neighbors, a few familiar faces from the stores down the block. The bell over the door chimes gently with each arrival, and the quiet hum of conversation starts to fill the space.
At the heart of today’s event is a small photography exhibit, a series of black-and-white shots taken by a local artist named Nicoletta Black.
Her photos are raw and intimate, capturing the quiet beauty of the city in ways I hadn’t noticed until I saw them through herlens: an elderly man reading the newspaper on a park bench, a little girl holding her mom’s hand outside a bakery, a stray cat sunbathing near a worn-down stoop.
And then there are the storefronts, my own included.
I hadn’t expected the sight ofBooks & Beanson the wall to hit me so hard. It's a photo from the early days, just after Elijah painted the sign but before we were fully open.
The windows are still dusty. The curtains are slightly crooked. But there’s a quiet pride in that image, proof of the dream becoming real.
